


Carry the Blessed Home

by Distracted



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Trapped, Whump, building collaspe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23278708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: It started out as a routine job, a milk run but it leaves one of Firehouse 51 in desperate peril, trapped and badly injured. Can the others rescue him in time?Set around season 5Updated- fixed some typos and rewrote some chapters. If you've been reading this, might be worth starting from chapter one again so you don't miss the changes. (It doesn't matter to the storyline so you don't need to :) )
Comments: 26
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One

The pressure on his chest is getting unbearable and he knows that if he doesn't get a clean breath soon, he's probably not going to make it. Splinters tear at his gloves as he shoves at the thick wooden beam pinning him down, doing his level best to ignore the shards of ice cold pain that are hitting his nerves. 

Hip. Left forearm. Shoulder. Ribs. Back. 

It's bad this time, and he knows it. His PASS device is screaming and the shrill noise makes the pounding in his head worse. Blood trickles down his face and he can't get an arm free to swipe it away, which seems massively unfair. If he has to suffocate under a beam, he should be able to do it with his eyes open, at least. A man deserves to see his death coming, even if he is trapped in the pitch black. 

The thought makes him laugh which brings him up short, reminding him that there's currently half a house resting on his body and he needs to focus. It would be easier if he wasn't so damn tired, but that's par for the course. Exhaustion is just a state of mind and he's overridden his body's demands for rest before and if he manages to come out of this without being too badly damaged, he knows he’ll do it again. That’s just part of the life he’s chosen. 

He braces himself and shoves against the beam. Agony plays a symphony on his battered body but he shunts it aside and shoves again. Luck is on his side. It creaks and shifts half an inch, just enough so that he can suck in a full breath, but the effort has cost him. 

_I must be burning_ , he thinks, and looks down, trying to see the flames. There's none, just endless darkness and choking dust. His hip feels like someone is holding a blowtorch to his skin and the pain makes his stomach roll, mouth flooding with saliva. He swallows hard, tasting dust and blood, but it’s no use. The nausea is overwhelming. 

Vomiting is the last thing he wants to do but he can't stop it. Every heave lights up the damaged areas of his body, sending vivid flashes of red across his vision. It leaves his mouth foul and his energy reserves dangerously depleted. He sags back against the debris, shaking, and tries to catch his breath. He's too hot and too cold all at once, a clashing mix that leaves him shaking inside his turnout gear. _Shock_ , he thinks distantly, _I'm going into shock_. He knows what to do but he's pinned and can't move so the knowledge is useless to him. 

He's a victim right now, not a firefighter and his only job is to stay alive long enough for his people to find him. _They're coming,_ he thinks and the thought steadies him enough to slow his breathing and take stock of his situation. By some miracle, the torch on his turnout coat is within his reach and he flicks it on, using the scant light to see what's trapping him. 

There's a paler patch in the air above him and he blinks at it, remembering falling but nothing before that. Wooden debris have him pinned against the basement wall. The beam across his chest has probably saved his life, falling at just enough of an angle to hold the rest of the floor off his body. The torch flickers and goes out, throwing him back into darkness. 

Terror rolls over him, all his childhood fears of monsters in the dark coming back with a vengeance. It's instinctual, and totally out of his control and he bears down, pushing past it, just like they taught him at the academy. His entire body shakes under the force of it and he can feel his pulse hammering away in his throat, like a butterfly throwing itself hopelessly at a closed window. The dark has weight and body, pressing down on him like a living thing until he gives in, closes his eyes and focuses on just breathing. The terror fades, and the demands of his battered body rise up again. 

He can feel all of his limbs which is both a blessing and a curse. It means there's no damage to his spinal cord for which he's intensely grateful but it also means he can feel every bit of damage to his body and it _really fucking_ hurts. He clamps his teeth down on his lip and rides the worst of it out, waiting for the wave to crest and wash over him. In any other situation he'd be ashamed of the whimpers coming out of his mouth but down here in the dark there is just him and the noise helps and so he can't bring himself to care. 

Both hands are trapped under the beam. His left wrist feels broken, but his right arm is the bigger problem, pinned between the wood and his body. He needs a hand free and so spends an agonising thirty seconds- he thinks, time has no meaning down here in the dark- working it loose. 

A skittering search of his body tells him he's not bleeding heavily. Well, from anywhere he can reach, at least. _I might be bleeding on the inside but that's okay. That's where the blood is meant to be,_ he thinks hazily and has to choke back a half-hysterical laugh. _Gabby is going to kill me,_ he thinks and tries to picture her face but his thoughts keep slipping away from him. It's like trying to catch fish in his hands, impossible and frustrating. 

The pain is getting to him again and he closes his eyes against it, right hand flexing helplessly as he tries to find something to hang onto, some anchor he can use against the relentless barrage but it's no use, and he drifts, head dipping onto his chest. 

"Matt?" a voice calls from the darkness. A rough glove touches his cheek and he startles, jerking back hard enough to force a cry of pain from his lips. 

The lights are blinding and he has to close his eyes, blinking stars from his vision. "Sev?" he manages, on an uneven breath, and the hand returns. He reaches for it and hangs on, needing a lifeline. The other man squeezes tight. 

"We got you, Matt." Severide says and he's never heard such a reassuring sound. "Just hang on, bud. We'll get you out."


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two 

"Chief, I got Casey," Severide says into his radio. "We're going to need…" He has to pause for a second, casting his eyes over the debris trapping his friend. "We're going to need cribbing, the air bags and saws." 

_And that's just the start,_ he thinks grimly. It's going to be a tough rescue. The big beam pinning Casey to the wall is also what's stopping the rest of the debris crushing him. One wrong move and the shattered concrete and broken wood will come down like a stack of cards. They've faced worse odds, he's sure of that, but damn it, he can't think of any right now. 

"How you doing, Matt?" He lifts a couple of chunks of concrete off the blond man, throwing them aside. He gets his first proper look at the other lieutenant and what he sees makes him want to tear into the mess with his bare hands. 

One eye is swollen shut, crusted with blood. The other is barely open, blood clumping his lashes together like some macabre mascara. There’s a bruise blooming on his jaw, and a nasty gash on his forehead which is still bleeding. The turnout coat hides the lieutenant’s torso but Severide guesses at broken ribs, just from the hitch in the other man’s breathing. He unfastens the coat, pushing it back and Casey shudders as the cooler air hits him. More blood stains his polo shirt but Severide can’t tell where it’s coming from. 

"Been better," Casey answers, and the rasp in his voice makes Severide wince. "What happened?" 

Footsteps on the ladder save Severide from answering. He glances over, expecting Dawson, but it's Brett and he's simultaneously relieved and worried. Relieved because Gabby doesn't need to see her husband like this, and worried, because he knows what it's like to be watching and waiting on the outside, relying on scant updates to tell you the person you love is still clinging to life. 

"Hey Matt," Brett says, passing a bag to Severide. "Give me a minute and I'll see if I can get you a bit more comfortable." There's a cervical collar in her hands and she slips it into place on Casey's body, hands careful but brisk at the same time. 

"I'd appreciate that," Casey says, and none of them mention the tears that are cutting tracks in the dust on his face. 

"Boden is holding Squad back for now. They're shoring up the back wall so nothing else comes down on us," Brett says and nods at the bag. 

Severide opens the bag, one handed, because Casey is still hanging onto him and he can't bring himself to break the contract. “What do you need?” he asks. 

"Trauma shears," she says and takes them, chomping through Casey's shirt in a few snips. 

Severide had seen it done a thousand times and yet it suddenly seems weirdly invasive, intrusive. He wants to cover Casey back up and the urge is so strong he has to bite his cheek to stop himself from reaching for the blanket. 

Brett sets up the monitor, sticking the pads in place with careful hands. Casey's ribs are already black and blue, a darker imprint showing where his radio had been. There are a few nasty cuts, some still bleeding slowly, and she tapes dressings over them, feeling him flinch under her touch.

"Any trouble breathing?" Brett asks. "Where else are you hurt?"

"No," Casey says, tugging his hand free to gesture at his chest. "Hurts here, though. Left arm is bad, too. And my hip is fucking killing me." His voice is rough, words grating over each other. 

The language makes her pause. He's a hot head, both lieutenants are, but he usually doesn't swear unless the situation is dire. 

"Looks like you broke some ribs, bud," Severide says. He's been there and knows how much it hurts. 

Brett frowns at the monitor, wagging her hand when Severide catches her eye. Casey's sats aren't the best she's ever seen but they're not terrible, given the situation he's in. A bag of fluids will help, but that means getting him out of his turnout coat. 

"Matt, I need to put a line in. Once it's set, I can give you something for the pain. I need to get you out of that coat first, okay?" 

"Okay," he says. He's cold again, and the injuries are wearing on him. "I'm married, though," he mumbles and huffs a laugh, taking any distraction that he can. He blinks his good eye and everything suddenly goes dark. Panic grips him. "Brett, I can't see," He says, voice high and tight. 

Severide shines his torch on the blond man's face. "Hey, hey Matt, it's okay. Give us a second here, bud." He grabs the bottle of saline wash Brett offers him and soaks a pile of gauze, using it to wipe the crusted blood from his friend's eyes. _As if being trapped isn't terrifying enough without being blind too,_ he thinks. "Blink for me?" 

Casey blinks again, the breath leaving him in a rush when he can see again. It makes him cough, and Brett slips an oxygen mask over his face. 

"Deep breaths, Matt. This is going to suck but we'll be quick." She pats his good shoulder and stands as best she can, carefully maneuvering the coat off. It's difficult, and all three of them are sweating when it's finally done. 

Casey has his eyes jammed shut, good hand clenching at his side as he tries to ride out the wave of agony the jostling has caused. Crimson spots dance at the edge of his vision, threatening unconsciousness, but he drags in another breath and they recede. 

Warm fingers touch his arm, the sting of the needle lost in the sea of torment washing over him. 

"Just hold on, Matt," Brett says. "Morphine is in. Just keep breathing for me, okay?" 

Severide unfolds the blanket and drapes it over Casey. It's cold in the basement and the blond man is wracked with shivers. It's shock, he knows, and while he's seen it, this is his friend who is suffering and that makes it hard to bear. 

Brett finds a spot to hang the bag and reaches for a splint, stomach rolling as she lifts Casey's left arm and spots the compound fracture, bone sticking out of a nasty wound just above his wrist. The pulse in his hand is weak and she swallows hard, knowing the fracture needs to be reduced. Knowing just how much that’ll hurt, but if she doesn’t, he could lose the hand. 

“Hey Matt,” she says, meeting Severide’s eyes over his head. “I need to reduce this fracture because it’s cutting off the circulation to your hand. I’m not going to lie, it’s going to hurt like hell, but you’ll be a lot more comfortable when it’s done.” 

“Just fucking do it,” he says, on an uneaven breath. 

He jerks under her hands, screaming, as she applies traction to his hand, feeling the sick muted pop as the bone slips back into place. 

Every nerve, every cell in his body feels like they’ve been rerouted to his wrist and doused in nuclear fire. It’s agony on a scale he didn’t know existed before and he would be quite happy to go back to not knowing it. The noises coming from him sound like they belong to some wounded, dying animal and yet he can’t make them stop. 

Severide has his hands on Casey’s shoulders, holding him steady, mouth pressed close to the other man’s ear, talking nonsense that he hopes is vaguely comforting. Both of them are shaking. 

Brett slips the air cast into place, carefully resting it against Casey’s chest. “All done,” she says, and flexes her hands inside her gloves, palms slick with sweat. She’d been a touch conserative with the morphine and she gives him a little more, feeling him relax as it washes through him. 

He blinks sweat and tears from his eyes. There’s more blood in his mouth, and a new raw patch where he bit his cheek. “I never want to do that again,” he says, unsteadily, and drags his free hand over his mouth. 

“Me either,” Brett says, and rubs his shoulder. 

Her hands brush over his torso, assessing his condition. She can just reach his pelvis under the debris and she feels carefully for any bleeding, or obvious fractures. 

He jerks, a hoarse scream ripping from his throat even under the influence of the morphine. Severide grabs his good hand again, giving him an anchor. Casey hangs on with desperate strength, each breath hissing through his teeth as he fights for control. 

"Just breathe, bud," Severide says, eyeing Casey with growing concern. The blond man is pale and drenched in clammy sweat, exhaustion written plain on his body. They all need this to be over sooner rather than later. 

"We need to get him out of here," she says. "if that's a fractured pelvis, he could bleed out internally and we couldn't do a thing to stop it." 

"Got ya," Severide says and keys his radio. "Chief, send Squad down. We need to get Casey out ASAP."


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three 

His back hurts, the long muscles on either side of his spine strained from the way he's trapped. The C-collar around his neck is getting seriously uncomfortable, the plastic digging into his shoulders. He wants to move, to be _anywhere_ else but still stuck in the house collapse. It's all too much and it's making him irritable, tetchy. Morphine is keeping the pain in check, but it can't do anything for the over stimulation that comes from being a victim. He's seen others go through it, knows it'll only get worse before it gets better and the thought makes him even more miserable. 

"How are you doing, Matt?" Brett asks and he almost snaps at her, catching the sharp retort just in time. 

"How much longer?" He asks instead, shifting a little to try to ease the ache in his back. It's a bad idea. Pain lights up all over his body, and his chest seizes, muscles cramping for a few long seconds before it passes, leaving him even more exhausted than before. He closes his eyes, wishing he could sleep and wake up again when it was all over. 

There are hands touching him and while he knows they're trying to help, he wants them to stop. He’s getting sick of being poked and prodded, sick of the stink of his own sweat, sick of the dust that keeps getting in his mouth, in his eyes. 

"Hey, Matt, what just happened?" Brett asks and rubs her knuckles on his chest. "Talk to me, what's going on?" The worry in her voice isn't quite hidden and he doesn't want to do that to her so he forces his eyes open again, struggling to put how he feels in words. 

Start with something simple, he thinks tiredly. "My back is killing me," he says. "Sitting like this… I can't take it much longer." 

"I can't give you any more morphine yet," Brett says. "I'm sorry. We'll figure something out, okay?" 

"Okay," he says, but he feels like screaming. 

The wall slopes away from his back, but a row of bricks just above his shoulders means he can't lean back, leaving him unsupported and sitting at an uncomfortable angle. The beam over his chest and legs isn't helping, keeping his body in a cramped position. 

Rescue squad have shored up most of the debris, but they need to be removed before the team can even make a start on getting him out. He's grateful that he's only pinned by the debris, not being crushed by them but at the same time, he just wants _out._

Severide kneels at his side. "Not long. Once we get the floor out of the way we can get those beams off you and get you out of here." 

"How long?" Casey asks, not sure himself if he's asking how long he's been trapped, or how long until he's free from the collapse. 

"Two hours since you fell, maybe thirty minutes until we can get you out," Severide says, knowing the blonde man is almost at his limits. They're all covered in dust, but it can't hide the lines of exhaustion on Casey's face, or the muscle that keeps jumping in his cheek. "We're working as fast as we can."

Casey knows that. He dips his shoulders a fraction, the movement sending streaks of red across his eyes as every injury he has lights up. It helps, a little though, taking some of the pressure off his back. 

Severide grabs him with careful hands. "Stay still, bud." He can feel the tension in the muscles under his touch and realises with a start that Casey is shaking again. "What are you trying to do?" 

"I needed to move," Casey says. "Feels better now," he adds on an uneven breath just before the grey stars invading his vision claim him and he blacks out. 

When he comes to, seconds or minutes later, there's something behind his back, supporting him. It helps. Brett and Severide are still by his side and from their faces, he knows something bad is going on. "What?" he asks thickly. "What's wrong?" Panic grips him for a second and he forgets his injuries. "Everyone okay?" 

"Everyone is fine," Severide says, then sucks in a breath. "We've hit a problem and we're dealing with it but it might take a bit longer to get you out." 

"How much longer?" Casey asks and the other lieutenant shakes his head. 

"I don't know, exactly. We have a gas main down here that could rupture if we move the floor. We're waiting for the gas to be shut off. I'm sorry, bud." 

It hits him again, just how uncomfortable he is and he shoves at the beam with his good hand, knocking the pulse ox off his finger. He tries to move his good leg and only manages to jostle his bad hip, making him cry out in pain. The muscles in his back cramp again and he bites his lip so he doesn't scream. The hands on him feel like anchors, suddenly, dragging him down, but he doesn't have the breath or the words to explain what he needs. The spasm eases and he blinks, tasting blood where he'd bitten his lip. His face is wet and he almost manages to convince himself it's sweat and not tears. 

"Look," Brett says, "I can knock you out, but it would mean intubation to keep your airway safe and we're not there yet." She rubs his good arm, clasping his wrist. "It's not a good option but I can do it, if you want." 

He considers it for a second, weighing his body's reserves with the terror of being unconscious, a tube in his throat to keep him breathing. He's woken up that way once and it's not something he's in a hurry to do again.

"No," he tells them, voice uneven. "I don't want that." 

"Okay," Brett says. She eyes the monitor, relieved to see Casey's sats have settled down. The little episode earlier had scared her. 

Cruiz calls for Severide and the lieutenant stands, patting Casey gently on the shoulder. "Hang tight, bud."

He grunts, letting his eyes close, and tries to ignore how uncomfortable he is. He's on the backside of the morphine and the pain is creeping back in, but the mental discomfort is worse. It's getting long, sitting there and he wants to stretch, to change positions and knowing he can't is killing him. Carefully, he shifts his good foot, just a fraction, easing the ache through his knees. 

"I'm sorry, Matt," Brett says and tucks the blanket more tightly around him. 

He nods dully, exhaustion hitting him suddenly. He closes his eyes on the whole mess and lets himself drift.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

A touch he knows rouses him and for a second all he can do is blink in confusion. For a split second, he's back at home, in bed and all is well. That illusion crumbles when the reality filters back in but he's damn glad to see her. "Gabby?" he asks, voice thick. He reaches out for her, a breath that sounds like a sob leaving his lips.

"Hey, baby." One hand is on his cheek, warm and comforting, and the other takes his good hand. "Kelly said you were having a bad time and thought I might be able to help. He's got this weird idea that you might want to see me."

The words get a tired, crooked smile. She’s rarely seen him so exhausted and it scares her. The Chief had detailed his injuries but seeing them in the flesh feels like a punch to the gut. She can't help but run her eyes over him, taking in the damage. Brett is an excellent paramedic but she needs to check. It's a bone deep instinct and one she can't suppress, wouldn’t want to even try. 

"How long was I out?" he asks, and she feels the tremor that runs through him, old fears drifting to the surface again.

"Couple of minutes," she answers. "Don't worry about it," she adds, because they're both gunshy from his last major injury. 

"Okay," he says and blinks, a tear escaping from his eye. “I’m scared, Gabby,” he says, fingers flexing around her hand. She smoothes it away and he leans into her touch, seeking comfort in a world turned to pain. 

“I know, babe,” she says. “But you’ve got the best damn people in Chicago working to get you out. All you have to do is hang on and I know you’re stubborn enough to do that.” 

He shivers. The basement is cold, a strong draft blowing in from the holes everywhere. She grabs another blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, chafing his fingers between her hands to warm them. 

He flexes his foot, finding just enough space to rub his heel against the floor. The movement helps, giving him a tiny bit of freedom, gives him somewhere to channel the pain. 

"What happened?" She asks the question that had plagued her since the collapse. Everyone else had made it out. He’d been the last, just a couple of steps behind Kidd when the structure went down.

"I don't know," he confesses. He's been trying to remember but there's a blank spot in his memory that he just can't fill. It’s filled with darkness and dust and the more he probes at it, the less it makes sense. 

The house had been filled with smoke when they got there, with reports of people - children - trapped inside. They’d swept the house, finding no-one, just a grease fire in the kitchen, easily extinguished and had been on the way out. He can remember laughing at some stupid joke and… The next thing he can remember is falling but it doesn't make sense. The fire hadn't reached the structure and they'd had no concerns about stability. 

His breathing hitches and she strokes his cheek. "It's okay, baby. Figure it out later, okay?" 

"Okay," he agrees, happy to put it aside because thinking about it is making his headache worse. He rubs his fingers against Gabby's hand, a small restless movement that he can't seem to stop, a distraction from the pain because he's getting seriously uncomfortable again. His jaw clenches, the muscle in his cheek jumping. It's everything, the collar and the cast and the sheer discomfort of being stuck in one position for too long. Desperation gathers like storm clouds in his chest and his breath catches again.

"Babe, how are you doing?" Gabby glances at the monitor, seeing his heart rate picking up. 

"I'm okay," he says, but they can all hear the strain in his voice. He's hoarse, and it feels like he's been screaming, but he can't remember it if he was and he doesn't want to know. 

Gabby glances at Brett, thoughts written plain on her face. The blonde paramedic shakes her head, holding up her gloved hand to show what drugs he's had and when. It's too soon for another dose of morphine and while they have other drugs on the rig, most would make him drowsy and risk his airway. It's a vicious cycle, because an intubation in his position would be damned hard at best, impossible at worst. 

Casey licks his dry lips. The fluids mean he's not really thirsty but his mouth is parched from the dust in the air and he'd kill someone for a nice cold beer. Or even a warm beer. 

"Good news, guys." Severide heads over to them, worry putting a crease between his eyes. "Gas is off. Once we get the air bags into place we should be able to get you out of there." 

"How long?" Gabby asks. 

He shrugs a little. "Five minutes, ten max. We'll be quick."

They've already brought the Stokes basket down, along with the backboard. They’re laid out close by, ropes already rigged to lift him out of the basement.

"We need to get you ready to move," Brett says and tugs the blanket back to check on his IV. Two lines is standard in a trauma and only having one worries her. It's still sound, but she adds a layer of tape because something tells her this could be a rough extraction. 

"Gabby?" Casey calls. She's moved out of his field of vision, to give Brett room and he suddenly needs to see her. 

"I'm here, babe," she says, moving back to him, taking the hand he holds out. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here. Squad is going to have you out real soon and we'll get you fixed up."

"You ready, guys?" Severide asks. The airbags are in place, enough debris moved to try a lift. In an ideal world, he'd move more but this isn't an ideal world and he can't stand watching his best friend suffer for much longer. The basement has been a battleground and it’s one he can’t wait to leave. 

Gabby and Brett exchange glances. "We're good!" Brett calls and Severide starts the compressors running. 

For a moment, everything is fine and then something gives with a crack and Casey starts screaming.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five 

"Stop!" Severide bellows and everyone freezes. "Brett, what's going on?" His voice is strained. He hands the controls over to Capp and carefully makes his way to Casey’s side, crouching by the unconscious man’s side. 

Moving the beams has uncovered more of Casey's legs but she can't see anything that would have caused that reaction. "I don't know. Give me a minute." 

"Can we get him out?" Gabby asks. She's crouched by Casey's side, tears flowing freely down her face. Casey is pale, face grimy where sweat has mixed with the dust. He's not moving much air and she grabs the ambu-bag and forces a couple of breaths into his lungs. His chest is locked up tight again, muscles in spasm and she knows they don't have much time. His O2 sats are dropping and she squeezes the bag again, hoping at least some of the air is reaching his lungs. It’s not enough- he needs intubation and oxygen, but it’s all she can do for now. "Quickly, guys!" 

Severide takes Casey by the shoulders and slowly turns him until he's flat on the back board. "Okay, carefully guys," he says and they ease the blond man out from under the beams. His injured leg is snagged on something under the debris, pulled to a bad angle. Brett eases it free, finding a twist of rebar has snagged on his trousers. 

She checks his pelvis, feeling broken bone grate under her hands. There's a pelvic wrap in one of the bags and she grabs it, stepping back while two of the guys ease him out of his turnout trousers and boots. She slides the wrap in place, tightening the straps and hoping that all the jostling hasn’t caused a bleed. 

The monitor is beeping at them because his oxygen sat is getting dangerously low. "Need to intubate," Gabby says and grabs the kit. "Bag him while I prep." 

Severide takes the bag, keeping air flowing into his friend's body, a pit of fear and worry churning in his gut. _Keep fighting, bud,_ he thinks. _This isn't how you go out._ He lets his world narrow to squeezing the bag, blocking everything else out. It's how he's survived a hundred bad situations, by focusing on what he can control, and it's how they're both going to survive this. 

"Gabby, you want me to?" Brett asks. Her eyes are wet and she knows she's in for a killer headache when this is all over but she pushes that aside for now. She can survive a tension headache but unless they can get some air into him, Casey isn’t going to survive this. 

The other woman shakes her head. "No," she says, but her hands are shaking so much she knows she'll never be able to get the tube in place. "Yes," she says and scrambles backwards, getting splinters in her palms from the rough floor. 

Brett takes her place, taking the scope and sliding it into her patient's throat. That's how she has to think of him if she's going to do this. She can't think of him as her friend, because she'll lose the calm she needs and she'll be damned if she's going to let him down. 

Casey is rousing, slowly and he gags on the scope, good hand jerking towards his face. Severide grabs it, holding on tight, the blond man's nails digging into Severide's glove. His broken arm jerks in a small, abortive moment and Stella rests her hands on his elbow, above the fractures, holding it still so he can't do any more damage. Brett tries again, sliding the scope into place and Casey jerks, almost getting his hand free. 

"Try to relax, bud," Severide says, and his voice is thick with emotion. His brain knows what Brett is doing is necessary, but his heart wants to tackle her away, stop the procedure, to protect his friend who is in such obvious distress. He can see Casey's eyes, wide and filled with terror and wishes he could do more to help. 

Casey is fighting the intubation, body reacting on pure adrenaline, so far past rational thought none of his friend's words reach him. All he knows is pain and that he can't get a breath. 

Brett gets the scope into position but the tube won't pass. Casey gags again and she pulls out, grabbing the ambu-bag to try to get some air into him. 

"Damn it," Brett snaps, "Gabby, push Versed!" 

Hermann has his arms wrapped around her, her face buried in his chest and for a split second, she doesn't move. Then the situation registers and she throws herself down near the kit, finding the drug and drawing up the dose. It takes two tries for her to get the syringe on the IV because her hands are shaking so much. _If he dies because of me, I'll never forgive myself, she thinks and pushes the drug._

It usually takes a moment to work but Casey's body is battered, on its limits and the drug takes hold quickly, sending him back into unconsciousness. His hand goes limp in Severide's and for a second the squad lieutenant panics, eyes darting to the monitor which shows Casey is still fighting, even deep down in the dark. 

Brett tries again, slipping the scope into place and working to pass the tube. His throat is raw from the past attempt and she feels a stab of guilt as she guides the tube into place, sending a few puffs of air down it from the ambu bag while she listens for breath sounds. 

"Got it!" Brett yells, clipping the portable vent in place and Casey's sats start to improve. "Let's go!"


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

They place the backboard into the basket, carefully lifting it out of the basement and into the back on the ambulance. Gabby slips in the back, and Brett hesitates, knowing that Gabby is in no state to treat Casey. 

"I'll drive," Stella says. "Go. Look after him." She grabs the keys from the blonde woman and jumps in the driver’s seat, firing up the engine. 

Brett scrambles in the back with Gabby and the ambulance speeds off into the night sirens screaming, lights flashing like they're defying the darkness. Brett nudges Gabby to the jump seat at Casey’s head. The dark haired woman sits, one hand on his cheek, the other gently brushing through his hair. 

Some thread of stubbornness has him fighting the sedition, waking each time to more pain and confusion. His eyes flutter open, bloodshot and panicked before the drugs take over again and pull him back into oblivion. Brett hangs a new IV bag and tapes a fresh dressing over the gash on his forehead. The wound over the fracture in his arm is still weeping blood. Brett adds more gauze over that, taping it down and adjusts the splint a little. The pulse in his hand is there, but weak, and she knows he needs surgery sooner rather than later to repair the damage. 

They hit a bump in the road and his eyes open again. Some awareness has him reaching for the ET tube, fingers brushing it before Gabby grabs his hand and pulls it away. He's clinging to Gabby with the other, knuckles white, barely conscious but fighting. She doesn't know where he's finding the strength, but she's glad for it. His eyes drift shut and Brett uses the lull to strip him out of his filthy clothes. She places a catheter, biting her lip at the bloody urine in the bag. 

The extent of the damage becomes clear, his injured hip and thigh almost black with bruising. Swelling pulls his skin tight. More bruises cover his stomach and ribs, a vivid one over his shoulder showing the pattern of whatever hit him, stripes of deeper bruising that looks painful. Small cuts and grazes cover his body where the debris had managed to find their way inside his turnout gear. He's starting to shiver again and she covers him in warm blankets. The ambulance is chilly and the last thing he needs is hypothermia on top of his injuries. 

The third time he rouses, he stays conscious. He's not fighting the vent any more but every time the ambulance hits a bump in the road his nails dig a little deeper into Gabby's hand and another tear slides down his face. The sheet under his head is already soaked with them. 

"I can give you some more morphine," Brett says and his eyes widen, darting frantically from side to side. She glances at Gabby, who looks just as confused as she feels. 

"Why, baby?" Gabby asks. 

He tugs his hand free, fingers flexing in apparent frustration. The effort is costing him; there are tense lines between his eyes. Gabby presses a pen into his hand, holding a fresh call sheet so he can scribble on in. The word is untidy, barely legible, but the effort has exhausted him and he pulls his arm back. _Sick_ , the note says. 

"I can give you something for that," Brett says and draws up the drugs when he blinks in relief. 

She pushes them and some of the tension leaves his body. His sats aren't exactly good, but they're holding steady. The lines on his face ease a bit and Brett lets out a quiet breath, knowing she’s done all she can for now, taking the chance to gather her reserves. 

"Three minutes!" Stella calls from the cab. "They're expecting us. Trauma team will meet us in the ambulance bay." 

Gabby had one hand wrapped around Casey's, the other on his cheek and she's leaning close to his ear to talk to him. It's keeping them both calm. Both of them are bloody and tear streaked and the sight sends a pang straight through Brett's heart. 

The ambulance turns the last corner and she takes a deep breath, gathering her reserves for the handover. The throbbing in her head is making her feel faintly sick and she finds a bottle of water, gulping down a couple of mouthfuls. Casey is relying on her to be at her best, and she'll be damned if she's going to let him down now. 

Stella brings them to a careful halt and hands pull the ambulance doors open. 

"What have we got?" the lead doctor asks. 

"Thirty six year old male firefighter injured in a fall and house collapse…" the words roll off her tongue with the ease of practice as she jogs along next to the stretcher. Kidd wraps her arms around Gabby, pulling her to a halt outside of the trauma room. 

The doc pauses while the other staff are transferring Casey to the bed. "Friend of yours?" he asks, gently. 

Brett nods. "Yeah. His wife is just outside too," she says, eyes darting to Gabby. 

"We've got him," he says and pats her shoulder. "Let us work. I'll update you as soon as I can." 

He steps back into the room, drawing the curtains. Numb, the three women hang on to each other, knowing all they can do now is wait.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven 

Thirty four minutes tick by, slowly. She knows, because she watches the big white plastic clock on the wall, willing the hands to move, willing someone to come out of the trauma room and tell her how her husband before she screams. Realistically, she knows it takes time to run tests and get scans, but any sense of reality she has went out of the window when the house collapsed and took Matt with it. The smell of disinfectant doesn't normally bother her- you get used to it, after a while- but now it’s making her stomach roll and her head pound. Or maybe that’s just the stress of waiting. Her emotions are all over the place and every extra minute she has to wait is making her want to scream. 

Dr Clarke steps into the family room. It's a small space with comfortable couches, TV on the wall playing the news on a loop, sound turned down so low she can’t even distinguish the words. None of them have even glanced at it. He shoves a few tatty magazines off the low table and sits facing the three women. 

"He's alive and relatively stable," he says, and the air leaves Gabby in a single, strangled sob. Her friends' hands tighten around hers. "He has some nasty fractures to his pelvis and ribs. Our Orthopedic surgeon is assessing them now but it's likely he'll need surgery on the arm and the pelvic fractures. All of his organs had a good rattling and there's some bleeding, but it should settle down without surgery. He also has some damage to the muscles in his chest wall so he'll probably be on the vent for a few days while they recover." He gets a look at Gabby's face and reaches out, pressing his hand to her shoulder. "I know it doesn't sound it, but this is good news. He's young and he's strong. There’s no damage to his spine. He's got a tough road ahead for the next few weeks but I'd expect him to make a good recovery."

"Can I see him?" Gabby asks. She looks shattered, relief at his words warring with the hours of fear and stress and worry. Slyvie and Stella don’t look much better. There are tense lines across Brett’s forehead and she keeps blinking, eyes bloodshot and shadowed. Stella is pale, still smudged with grime and dust from the house. 

"Two minutes." Dr. Clarke stands, a small smile on his lips. "Matt's tough, Gabby. Have faith."

She nods, swiping her eyes with the back of her hand. It feels like she hasn't stopped crying all day and her face is sore from it. "I know. Thank you."

Dr. Clarke opens the door, nodding at the other two women. "You can come too," he says then leads them to the trauma room. 

A nurse sits in the corner, a chart on her lap as she makes a careful note of Casey's stats. 

He's unconscious again, deeply sedated. A central line has been placed in his neck, feeding him blood and more fluids. An arterial line runs into his good wrist, measuring his blood pressure. More wires snake to the heart monitor. He’s not a small man and yet he looks tiny beneath it all. 

Gabby presses a kiss to his forehead, whispering in his ear, stroking his hair. His utter stillness is unnerving and part of her wants to shake him, to wake him up. Wants to see his eyes again, not clouded with pain and fear and drugs. 

The door opens and a blonde nurse steps inside. “The OR is ready for him,” says another nurse.

"I love you, baby," Gabby says as nurses switch him to portable machines and wheel him away. 

\---

She's dozing, head resting on Severide's shoulder, when the surgeon walks into the family room. Brett is curled up on one couch, fast asleep. Stella has stepped out to grab coffee and at first, she thinks the noise is her returning. 

The surgeon, a short, greying man with kind eyes waits while she gathers her wits. "Gabby Dawson?" he asks, and she nods. 

"Yes. How's Matt? How's my husband?" She shoves her hair back from her face, leaning forward. 

Severide rests his hand on her shoulder in mute comfort, then reaches over and shakes Sylvie gently to wake her. Her eyes pop open and he hands her the half cup of cold coffee by his side. She looks like she needs it.

"He tolerated the surgery well though we have to fix several bleeds. We've stabilised the fractures in his pelvis and plated the fractures in his wrist," the surgeon says. 

"Okay," Gabby says slowly. "Why do I feel like you're not telling me something?" 

"It's likely that he'll need further surgery to his pelvis due to the nature of the fractures. At this point, I can't even say with confidence that he'll walk normally again, let alone return to work." He stood, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I know that wasn't the news you wanted to hear."

"No," Gabby says. "No, he's strong. He'll be fine." 

"And I hope with everything I have that that's the case." He rubs his neck. "He pulled me out of a car wreck six months ago. Drunk driver ran into my car, took me off the road. I'd probably have died if it wasn't for your husband and his team so believe me when I say I'll do everything I can to see he has a full recovery." 

"Thank you," Severide says, rubbing comforting circles on Gabby's back. "Can we see him?" 

"Of course," the surgeon answers. "He's in ICU and will remain there for a good few days. He's heavily sedated and on a vent so don't expect too much."

They nod and follow him to Casey's room. He's covered in tubes and wires, dwarfed by the machines around him and so pale he almost blends with the sheets. The gash on his forehead has been sutured, the bruising around his eye blending with the shadows under them. 

His pelvis is covered with a sheet but it does little to disguise the damage underneath, drains snaking out, the bulky dressings clear under the cover. His fractured wrist is still in an air cast, bandages extending from his knuckles to above his elbow. His fingers are swollen and the surgeon points to it, sending a nurse in with another pillow to raise his arm. Two of his nails are black and for some reason that bothers her more than the other injuries. It’s a tipping point, and she’s just reached the edge of it. 

Gabby's knees unlock, and she drops into the bedside chair, taking his uninjured hand. She’s crying again, and part of her wonders if the tears will ever stop. She doesn't have the strength to fight them, so just lets them fall. She’s cold, chilled suddenly and Severide drapes his jacket over her shoulders. It’s still warm from his body and she huddles into it. 

The vent fills the room with rhythmic whooshing that's hypnotic. Gabby rests her head on the bed rail and listens to it, watching Casey's chest rise and fall in sync with the sound. 

He's alive, and mostly whole and that's all that matters for now. 

"Hey, babe," she says and has to stop to clear her throat. "The doctor said it's okay if I sit here for a little while." She sniffs hard. "I'll sit here as long as you need me to, okay?" 

His eyelids flicker, blinking open for a second as he rouses, bone deep instincts in him responding to the pain and fear in her voice. It's a tiny victory, but it's enough for now. She grips his hand tighter, feeling Severide wrap his arm around her. He wraps the other around Brett, pulling her close, lending both women his strength while they all wait.


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

It takes him three days to open his eyes again. They've been taking shifts so he's not alone and Severide is dozing in the chair by his bed, exhausted by a tough shift. There's an old copy of Boating magazine on his knees that falls to the floor as he sits forward, gaze fixed on his friend's face as he wills him to repeat the motion. 

"Hey, Casey?" he says, uncertainty. 

Casey's hand jerks and Severide responds instinctively, taking hold of it. "Hey, bud. Good to see you awake. Just relax. I'll get the doctor." He hits the call button. 

Casey's fingers tighten around his friend's. He's still on the vent and the tube feels like torture device. He can't stop the surge of panic that washes over him, spiking his pulse. He can't move, and that makes things worse, because for a second he's back in the rubble, in the dark and it's too much. He yanks on Severide’s hand, struggling with desperate strength. 

"Hey, Matt. Just look at me. You're okay," Severide says, just about to stay slow deep breaths when he realises that probably isn't the best advice. "The Doc will be here any second." He rests his other hand on Casey’s cheek, hoping the contact will be enough to calm him. 

There had been talk about taking him off the vent but his doctor was being cautious. _Damn it,_ Severide thought, _this is what Gabby warned him about this morning._

The argument had been fierce and neither of them had come away satisfied. The fact neither of them was wrong hadn't helped. 

"What's going on?" Dr Clarke asks. "I'm stepping in for now. Dr Adams is in surgery," he explains, before Severide can ask. "Hey, Matt. Good to see you awake." He scans Casey's vitals, nodding a little. "Give me a couple of minutes and I'll get rid of that tube for you. That okay?" 

Casey blinks, hand folding into a tired thumbs-up. His eyes are still wild, but he's calming. 

"I know it's uncomfortable but just try to relax," Dr. Clarke says and gathers the supplies he needs. He deflates the cuff on the tube, disconnecting it from the vent and turns the machine off. "Okay, it'll feel weird but deep breath and cough for me." 

Casey does, and Dr Clarke slides the tube free. It takes a moment for Casey to catch his breath. Long wracking coughs shake his body, and they hurt, jarring every injury without mercy. He bites his lip, clamping down with all his will and manages to get the cough under control. 

Dr. Clarke slips a nasal cannula into place and the extra oxygen helps, taking some of the strain off his aching chest. 

"How long?" Casey asks, voice hoarse. His throat feels raw and he's in dire need of a drink. Severide holds a cup of water up and he swallows a few mouthfuls. 

"Four days," Severide says. "You just missed Gabby. We ordered her home to sleep and eat because she hasn't left your side. Want me to call her?" He asks and Casey nods.

Severide slips out of the door to make the call leaving Casey and the doctor alone. 

"How bad?" Casey asks. It feels bad. He's still fuzzy from the drugs but pain is creeping in. His fingers play over the cast on his wrist but it's his hip that hurts the most, a deeply unpleasant ache that speaks of long surgical intervention. _What if I can’t go back to work?_ The thought threatens to send panic through him but he wrestles it down, shoving it away for later, when he hurts less and he’s clearer. 

"Fractured ribs, two fractures in your pelvis and a broken wrist that needed plating. You got off lucky, considering." 

"Doesn't feel like it," Casey says, and shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position. It gives him a jolt as he remembers trying to do the same under the beam. 

"Pain getting bad?" Dr Clarke asks, a sympathetic frown wrinkling his face. 

Casey nods. "Yeah." His entire body is throbbing like a bad tooth, and he feels sweat break out along his hairline. The few mouthfuls of water he’d swallowed churn uneasily in his stomach and he swallows, wincing because his throat feels like he’s been using ground glass to gargle with. 

"Hold on, bud," the doctor says, and adjusts something on the autodose machine. "Now you're awake, we'll get you on a PCA machine. Is it the hip?" 

"Yeah," Casey says again. He knows it's short but he's not really up for conversation. He’s exhausted again, eyelids suddenly made from lead and it’s a struggle to keep them open. 

"Pelvic fractures are super painful but we can do things to help." He grabs the spare pillows from the chair and uncovers Casey's legs. "Getting your knee up will probably help. Ready?" 

"Go for it," Casey says, glancing over hopefully when he hears the door open. It's Severide and while he's glad to see his friend, he's disappointed it isn't Gabby. Part of him knows that’s unreasonable- it takes time to reach the hospital, but the bigger part just wants to see her. 

"Hey Kelly, wanna help?" Dr Clarke says and hands him the pillows. "I'm going to lift Matt's leg. You get the pillows under his knee." 

He lifts gently. It's agony, and Casey has to bite his lip to stop himself screaming. Severide's quick with the pillows but it's too much and he can feel himself fading. He blinks, fighting against the pull but it’s too strong and he surrenders to it, letting himself fall into the darkness. 

"He okay?" Severide asks, worry jumping in his chest. I hate this, he thinks, and can’t stop himself from patting Casey’s arm, eyes fixed on the slow but steady rise and fall of his chest. 

"He's okay. He'll probably be in and out for a while. The remaining sedation needs to leave his system." He grimaces. "And moving his leg was probably extremely painful." 

Severide frowns. "Then why do it?" he snaps, hands flexing. He’s helpless, unable to fix anything, to make it better, and he loathes the feeling. He became a firefighter because he couldn’t bear to stand on the sidelines and watch, and being forced to do just that is torture. 

"Because he'll feel a damn sight better next time he wakes up," he explains. "This is excellent progress, Kelly," he says. His beeper goes off and he slaps Severide's shoulder. "He's on the mend, I promise. I gotta take this. If you're worried, hit the button." 

He ducks out of the room, leaving Severide staring down at his friend. _You just keep making progress, bud,_ he thinks. _We need you back, fighting fit. I need you back._


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

He wakes in the dark and for a second, before his groggy brain catches up, he's back under the rubble, helpless and alone. His gaze darts around the room, and he lets out a breath that sounds like a sob when reality kicks back in. 

Hospital room. ICU. 

There's enough muted light for him to see the room and he lets his gaze wander until his heart stops racing. 

He's not prone to panic, has spent much of his adult life running into situations other people would run away from but waking up is tough. He doesn't know if it's the drugs or the pain but there's a moment when he first opens his eyes when he has no idea where he is. He keeps thinking it'll get easier but it isn't and part of him keeps thinking it never will. 

The door opens, letting in a wash of brighter light from the hallway. 

"Matt?" Beth, his nurse asks. "Saw your numbers jump on our monitor."

He likes her, finds her no nonsense attitude refreshing and seeing all five foot of her ordering Severide - who had dwarfed her - home earlier had been the one bright spot in this nightmare. 

He's not sure how to admit what happened. "Bad dream," he says after a pause and shifts a little, biting his lip on a groan. It's been five days since the accident and he's still battered and bruised. He feels shaky, rattled, emotions out of control in a way he really doesn't like. 

"It happens," she says and steps into the room. "You've been through a huge trauma, a surgery, we've got you on a million different meds. I'm not surprised your brain is playing tricks on you." 

He grits his teeth, suddenly frustrated. "We're trained to deal with incidents like this." 

"Huh, I must have missed that day," she says, eyebrow lifting sharply "I didn't realise the Academy had a class on what to do when a house falls on you." 

He glares and she shakes her head. 

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm not making fun of you, I promise. You're not the first smoke eater I've looked after, and you probably won't be the last." She crosses the room, making a show of checking his IV lines, and presses her hand on his shoulder. "Your brain has been through a horrible thing and you need time to let it heal."

"I get that, I really do," he says, glad the room is dimly lit because that somehow makes it easier to talk. It feels like he's admitting secrets and everything about that makes him uncomfortable. "But it's been almost a week and I can't get it out of my head."

"A week is nothing, Matt," Beth says, but gently. "You need to give yourself time. We do have people who you can speak to, if you want."

He huffs a breath and tries to shift again. It's a mistake, lights up every damaged bit of his pelvis and sends a bolt of agony straight up his spine. 

"Hey Matt," Beth says and he can hear her adjusting the equipment but his eyes are screwed shut. "Focus on my voice, okay? I've just upped your morphine dose a bit. It should give you some relief." 

"Thanks," he says, the drugs hitting him already. "I wake up and I'm back in the collapse." He blurts the words out. "I've had close calls, but nothing like that. I didn't think I was going to make it out." 

"You did," she says. "It just takes time for your brain to catch up. I can get someone in here for you to talk to, if you like?" she offers again. She's seen more than one firefighter through a stay in ICU and she knows how damn stubborn they can be. 

"Maybe," he says softly. "Let me think about it." 

It's not like he has any shortage of people to speak to, but sometimes it's easier to admit your fears to someone who doesn't know you, whose face you have to see everyday or every night. Lay your truth out at a stranger's door and it might not follow you home again. Do the same with someone who you love and it'll always be there, like a ghost, unseen and unsaid, but remembered. 

"How are you feeling? How's your pain?" Beth asks. She adjusts the angle of the bed slightly, raising his legs a fraction and the uncomfortable pressure on his hip eases. 

"Better." There's pain there still--he can feel it in the background, waiting, but the morphine has tamped it down and he feels the tension leave his body as his aching muscles finally relax. "Thank you," he mummers, feeling sleep stealing over him again. 

Her hand brushes his shoulder as she straightens the blankets. "Sleep. Your guys got you out. It's my team's turn to get you back to them."

She pats his shoulder again, gently and leaves, the door clicking closed behind her. 

He closes his eyes and follows her advice.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note- I'd like to sincerely thank everyone who has been reading this. I really appreciate the comments, the kudos, everything. I totally didn't expect it and it is making a slightly stir crazy author feel much happier. Apologies for the short chapters and irregular posting schedule. I'm currently working on a 12k dissertation that is sucking up much of my free time, sanity and creativity. Sorry for the interlude, hope you enjoy this chapter.

Chapter Ten

"Sorry," Beth said, blocking the door to Casey's room with her tiny frame. "No visitors at the moment. The doc is with him. He had a rough night."

Gabby digs her nails into her palms. "Rough how? He's my husband, I want to see him!" She feels like shoving the petite nurse out of the way, going Gabby Dawson on the problem, but something tells her that it isn't a good idea. The blonde woman has her arms folded and a don't mess with me look on her face.

"Two minutes?" Severide asks. He's exhausted, a bad shift just behind him, and worry about his friend isn't helping his temper. "Please? We're family."

The door slides open before Beth can say anything. Dr. Clarke steps out, face set in a worried frown. He mummers a few orders to Beth, and she slips into the room. 

"What's going on?" Gabby asks. "Is it an infection?" 

Severide squeezes her shoulder in mute support. He's not thrilled by the look on the doctor's face, but he trusts the man, and he's willing to wait, willing to listen to the experts because that’s what they’re there for. 

"Yes, and no," Dr. Clarke meets her eyes. "He's showing signs that his body is rejecting the hardware we put in his pelvis. He might need another surgery, but for now we're treating it with drugs. I'm worried he hasn't recovered enough yet for another surgery." He pauses and rubs his hand through his hair. "He's in a lot of pain. The on call anesthesiologist is on her way down to assess him for a spinal block." 

"Please, Jeff," Gabby says. "Can I see him?" Worry has wrapped its cold fingers around her heart and she feels like she can't get a clean breath. She sniffs, and it sounds like a sob but she doesn't realise she's crying until Severide swipes the tears off her cheeks and pulls her into a hug. "He doesn't deserve this," she gets out between sobs "I'm so scared. I don't want to lose him." 

"Hey," Severide says, one hand rubbing circles in her back. "He's tough and he's stubborn. He'll come through this," he adds, eyes meeting Clarke's, daring him to disagree. 

The doctor blinks and tips his head in acknowledgement. "Two minutes," Dr. Clarke says. "No more. He's quite heavily sedated, so don't be alarmed if he's not up to conversation." 

He leads them into the room. Beth is hanging a new bag of fluid, and she finishes it quickly, stepping away from the bed. 

Casey is propped up, pillows supporting his hip, his arm, keeping him on his side. He's deathly pale, face drenched in sweat despite the fan blowing on his bed. He's back on oxygen, a mask covering his mouth and nose. The fingers of his good hand play over the sheet, a repetitive motion like he wants to move but lacks the strength. His eyes are bloodshot, the shadows under them matching the bruises. He looks weary, worn down and it sends a pang of something like grief right through her. 

"Matt, honey?" Gabby says and steps towards the bed, taking his good hand. "Hey babe." 

His eyes slowly track to her face and the ghost of a smile graces his lips. "Hey," he says, voice so hoarse she had to lean forward to hear it. "It hurts, Gabby. I just want it to stop," he finishes and she sobs again because she's never heard him sound like that, never heard him sound broken before. He lifts his good hand to her cheek, wiping the tears away. "Sorry," he says, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks. 

She cups his cheek, swiping away the tears there. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she says. 

"Made you cry," Casey grates out. "Gabby, I'm so tired, I'm sorry." 

"You have to keep fighting, you hear me?" She says, stroking his cheek, the stubble there rasping under her fingers. "Everyone at 51 is pulling for you, look." She turns, meeting Severide's eyes and seeing the same tears there. 

"Hey Matt," Severide says, holding up the stuffed dog in his hand. He has to clear his throat twice before the words sound remotely normal. "The house sent this. Figured you could use the company." 

It's a dalmatian, dressed in a tiny turnout coat and helmet. Casey blinks, the corner of his mouth quirking up at the sight. "Cute," he says, and Severide puts it on the locker next to the bed, patting Casey's shoulder gently. 

"Glad you think so, bud." Casey feels desperately frail under his hand, the bones in his shoulder horribly prominent. He rubs circles with his fingers, wishing he could give the man some of his strength. 

Casey is blinking heavily, the drugs hitting him hard. It’s a good thing, giving him some relief, but it’s hard to watch and Severide has to fight the urge to look away. 

"Sleep, Matt. We'll be here when you wake up." 

He mumbles something Severide doesn't catch and goes limp under his hand, body giving in to the sedation again. 

The door opens again, admitting a tall, dark haired Doctor. "Are you Matt's family?" She asks. They both nod. "I'm Dr. Emory, the duty anesthesiologist. My team is working closely with his other docs to facilitate his recovery and keep him comfortable. Did Dr Clarke explain why I'm here?" 

"You want to put a spinal block in to stop the pain from his pelvis," Gabby says. "Can you do it here? How long will it take?" 

"An epidural, yes." She meets Severide's eyes. "There are risks. It involves placing a catheter in his spine so we can keep giving him drugs. It might drop his blood pressure. It might affect his breathing, in which case he might end up back on the vent." She gives them a tight smile and picks up Casey’s chart, flicking through it. The smile fades into a worried frown. 

It sends a stab of ice through Gabby and her hand tightens around Matt’s. 

"He can't stay like this. I can't stand it and neither can he," Gabby says. "Where do I sign?"


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author finally remembers how to write a damn chapter...

Chapter Eleven

Gabby signs the paperwork and hands it back to Dr. Emory who ushers them out of the room. 

"I need you to wait outside. Don't worry, we'll take good care of him," she says, polite but unyielding. She opens the door, meeting Gabby's eyes when it seems like the other woman wants to argue. "I'll come and get you as soon as the procedure is over and he's settled again."

 _Casey would hate this,_ Severide thinks. _He'd hate us standing over him, talking about him like he's a piece of furniture or a doll._ He's never seen his friend so frail, so damn broken. Taking risks is part of the job and God knows, they've all had their share of injuries, but somehow seeing Casey trapped in a hospital bed is driving it home in a way that makes his chest ache. He's glad they've been asked to leave the room, because he can't stand to see Casey go through any more trauma. Part of him is ashamed about that, thinks that it's cowardly, but the more sensible part knows that Casey wouldn't want them watching. Everyone has limits, and Severide is rapidly reaching his, knows that he needs to hit pause and take a break, even if it's just for a few minutes. He's been holding the house together and he's not ashamed to admit that he needs someone to do that for him. 

It feels hypocritical when Casey was blown so far past his limits, thrown over the threshold of pain and fear. The team had been there to catch him and they'll continue to provide support, no matter what. Severide finds his phone in his hand, sends a quick text and sighs. 

"We'll go and grab a coffee," he says, and touches Gabby's arm. She's hanging on to Casey's good hand, her other hand wrapped so tightly around the bed rail that her knuckles have gone pale. "Come on, I'm buying." 

The dark haired woman doesn't move. "I'm staying," she says firmly, lips pressing together in a tight line as she looks from Severide to the doctor. 

Severide opens his mouth to try again, but Dr. Emory beats him to it, covering Gabby's hand with her own. "No, you're not. I know this is your husband, and I know that you're scared but you can't help him by staying. I've done this procedure a thousand times. I can't promise you that nothing will go wrong, but I can promise that I'll do everything in my power to make sure it goes right." She meets Gabby's eyes, her own dark and thoughtful. "I need you to leave now so I can help your husband." 

As if roused by the conversation, Casey blinks, face tensing in pain. The fingers on his injured arm flex and he grunts, just barely aware enough to sense the tension in the room. "What's going on?" He grates out, and bites his lip as a wave of agony washes over him. It spikes his heart rate, sends it racing. His body isn't his own anymore; it's made from broken glass, jagged knives, barbed wire that is tearing him into pieces. There's blood in his mouth and suddenly he's freezing, beset by shudders that he can't control. His teeth chatter and he clamps his mouth closed, knowing he can't hold it for long. The lactic acid ache is already building and he gives in with a cry, feeling like he's failing at something that he can't quite grasp. He can't remember a time where his world wasn't drowned in constant pain and it wrenches a sob from him, raw and utterly spent. He needs it to stop, because even in the grey oblivion the drugs give him, the pain is still there, lurking. There's a scream building up behind his teeth and he clamps down savagely on it. 

"Out, now." Dr. Emory orders and Severide pulls Gabby away, leading her out of the room. It takes all of his willpower not to turn back when he hears another sob rip out of Casey but if he turns, so will Gabby and that will only prolong his friend's agony so he keeps walking even though every instinct is driving him back. 

One of the nurses closes the door and tugs the curtains round but there's a gap and Severide can't help but watch as the nurses lay out the equipment. He sees the size of the needle and blanches, turning away. _No, Casey would not want me seeing this,_ he thinks. 

"I should be in there with him," Gabby says. Tears roll down her cheeks and she swipes them away angrily. "He needs me."

"Hey, he's in the best hands. We'd just get in the way," Severide says and sits down on the plastic bench in the hallway. He's exhausted, just wants to sleep for a week and the twinge in his shoulder from an earlier call is slowly turning into a full-blown ache. He feels like a fraud to be complaining about a few bruises when his best friend is broken in a hospital bed, but he knows Casey would understand. 

Footsteps in the hallway make him turn, relieved to see Brett and Kidd coming towards them. Brett gathers Gabby into a hug, meeting Severide's eyes over her shoulder. She nods, and leads Gabby towards the small waiting room, leaving Severide alone with Stella. 

She kneels in front of him, cupping his face. "You okay?" she asks, and the straightforwardness tips him over the edge.

"No," he says and blinks, somehow not surprised to find his eyes are wet. "No, I don't think I am," he gets out before she pulls him into a hug. 

"It's okay, babe. I got you," Stella says, fingers carding through his hair, soothing the tension in his neck. 

The spell passes after a couple of minutes and he sits back, wincing at the wet spot on her shirt. "Sorry, didn't mean to go sideways on you." 

She sits next to him, wrapping her fingers through his. "It's a circle, remember? We all support each other. You'd do the same for me." She presses a bottle of water into his hand and fishes in her pocket for the ibuprofen stashed in there. "Here, you look like hell. I saw you get clipped today."

"Casey did," Severide says and swallows the tablets with a gulp of water. "He didn't look this bad when he had the head injury. I'm…" he pauses, fingers shredding the label on the bottle, "I'm scared for him, Stella," he admits and the words feel like a betrayal. 

Her hand tightens around his in silent support. "Matt's a fighter…" she starts, and he shakes his head. 

"The doc was talking about his body rejecting the wires and stuff they put in his hip. How can he fight that?" He's back on the edge, exhaustion and emotions threatening to overwhelm him again. 

"I don't know," she says and touches his face, turning his troubled eyes towards her. "I don't know, but the doctors will. We just have to trust them." 

She tugs and he turns, lets her pull his head down on her shoulder. He's done all that he can for now and it's time to let others take over. He'll be there when his friend needs him. 

Footsteps echo along the hallway again and he glances over, expecting Brett and Gabby, but it's Casey's orthopedic doctor. He nods at them on the way into the room but doesn't stop. They're both on their feet before he can process the movement but the curtains are closed and he can't see anything. 

"What do you think is happening?" He asks Stella, rubbing a hand over his mouth. 

"Nothing good," she says as the curtains are yanked back. Casey is unconscious again, face shocking pale against his stubble. A sheen of perspiration covers him and there's a catch in his breathing that makes Stella wince. 

The doors burst open and the team wheels the bed through. "Where's Gabby?" Dr. Emory asks and Severide shakes his head. 

"Our friend took her for coffee. What's going on?" Severide glances at the prone figure "is this because of the epidural?" 

"We need to take Matt back to surgery. The rejection issues I spoke of earlier have gotten worse and we need to remove some of the hardware," the orthopedic doc explains. "It's an emergency so we can't wait for Gabby's permission. I'm sorry, I'll update you as soon as I have more news," he says and then they're moving down the hallway, leaving Severide and Stella behind.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

It's storming outside when Casey wakes. The room is dark and cool and for a moment he's content to listen to the thunder, the patter of the rain hitting the glass. Nothing hurts, for a change and his foggy mind fixes on that. It's a relief and he sighs, shifting his shoulders to a more comfortable position. 

_I can't feel my legs,_ he thinks and the tranquility he woke with shatters. 

The heart monitor picks up his distress as his heart starts to race. He levers up, off his good elbow, throwing the blankets back and runs his fingers over his thighs. Nothing. He can see his hand resting on his leg, but there's no sensation, no feeling and he blinks in disbelief. 

_Why can't I feel my fucking legs?_ He thinks and he's so distracted he doesn't realise that he's asked the question aloud until he gets an answer. 

"Matt!" Beth grabs his hand which is clawing wildly at his legs, leaving bloody scratches. "Hey, stop it." She pins his wrist down and uses the other hand to grab his chin, forcing eye contact. "You have an epidural in place to numb your lower half."

The words take a second to register and he blinks at her, voice choked when he speaks. "What?" 

"The numbness isn't permanent, Matt," Beth says and steps back, releasing him. "The anesthesiologist put a catheter in your back to block the pain in your pelvis. It's completely reversible." She tidies his blankets, tucking him back in. "Your family is here. Do you want me to get them?" 

He shakes his head, one sharp movement. "No," he says and his voice is like rust. It makes his throat ache, makes his eyes burn. The first sob takes him by surprise and he jerks his hand up to cover his face, ashamed of his weakness. "I'm not paralysed?" he asks. 

"You're not," Beth confirms. She has one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, eyes filled with compassion. "Do you want your family in here? 

Casey shakes his head wildly. "I can't… I... I don't…" He stammers, at a loss how to put his rolling emotions into anything like coherent thought. It's the first time since the accident that he's been anything like clear headed and he just needs a few minutes to process everything that's happened without anyone there. His emotions are rubbed raw and he doesn't have the energy to hide that from the people he loves. He's reached his emotional limit and the relief valve is blowing open. 

"Hey, it's okay, Matt." She rubs his arm, finding a box of tissues on his nightstand and dropping them in his lap. "I'll let them know you're awake and making sense then send them home until the morning." 

"Am I?" He asks bitterly. "None of this makes sense to me." He frees a tissue and swipes angrily at his eyes. The damn tears just won't stop and the pressure of holding them back is making his chest ache. 

"You've been in ICU for seven days, had two lots of major surgery and have been mostly unconscious for most of it." She neatly drops his used tissues in the bin. "Your emotions need time to catch up. I'm not judging you, and neither will your family if you want them in here." 

Casey shakes his head again. He's had so much control stripped from him, had so much taken away by his body's needs that the thought of Gabby, of Severide, of Brett seeing him like this fills him with something like panic. There's not much he can control right now, but he can control this. He's too raw, too open and he needs time to put a buffer in place before he sees anyone. 

"Okay," Beth says. "I'm only a button press away if you need me." 

She heads towards the door, pausing to dim the lights and pull the curtains round, giving him as much privacy as she can. Her heart breaks a little when she hears the first sob tear out of him and she has to pause by the door to dry her own eyes. She's been an ICU nurse for ten years, but some patients have a way of getting to her and Matthew Casey is one of them. She’s always been a sucker for a blond, but it’s more than that. He’s a genuinely good man and watching him struggle feels like watching a puppy be kicked. All her instincts want to make it stop, but there’s only so much that she can do. 

His people have taken over one of the family rooms and she pauses at the doorway, not really surprised to find them all asleep because it's 2am and they've had a damn hard day. Gabby is curled into an armchair, coat draped over her. Brett has claimed the other armchair, bare feet propped in the coffee table, head thrown back against the cushions. Stella is sleeping upright on the couch, with Severide's head on her lap. None of them look remotely comfortable and yet, she's reluctant to wake them. They all need the rest and it’s the first time she’s seen them actually getting any. Sometimes being a nurse means caring for more than just her actual patients and this group have snuck inside that boundary. Part of it is the obvious care and love they have for their friend, how they keep fighting for him, but another part is deeper, more complex and she’s not sure that she wants to puzzle it out in the middle of the night. 

She clears her throat gently and Stella's eyes pop open, blinking as she gets her bearings. 

"Got news," Beth says quietly but it's enough to wake them all. 

Severide opens his eyes, a headache already building. His shoulder has stiffened and he sits up with a muffled groan. Stella silently offers the ibuprofen from her pocket and he takes two with a swig of cold coffee. It’ll be hell on his stomach but he can’t find the energy to care. 

Brett rubs her face, hands skimming over her hair and trying to get it into some kind of order. She’s groggy and chilled, back aching from the uncomfortable way she’d been sleeping. 

Gabby is already awake, eyes fixed on Beth. "What's going on? Is Matt okay?" 

"He's awake, alert and oriented," Beth says, shoving her hands into her pockets. "The epidural has worked and he's a lot more comfortable." 

"What aren't you telling us?" Severide asks, and takes Stella's hand. 

"He wants to be alone tonight," Beth says, bracing herself. She knows first responders, knows every instinct they have is driving them to be in the room, do what they can for their family. "Guys, I know it's tough but he needs you to respect his wishes on this. Go home. Get some proper sleep and come back in the morning, okay?"

"Can I see him, please?" Gabby asks. "I'm his wife!" 

"No," Beth says, gently but firmly. "Matt made his wishes clear. He needs time to process. He knows you're all here for him when he's ready." 

Gabby looks like she wants to argue, but Severide speaks before she can. "I get that," he says, his own hospital stays coming to mind. He'd been better off than Casey, but the lack of control had grated on him. And I mostly wasn't stuck in a bed, he thinks. He shares a glance with Stella. "You want a lift home, Gabby?" Stella asks and gathers her things. 

Gabby nods. She's exhausted and the thought of driving isn't appealing. Leaving Matt is ripping her heart to bits and she can't speak, because if she does, she's going to start crying and her eyes are already sore. 

"Tell him we're thinking of him," Brett says as she passes Beth on the way out of the door. 

"I will," the nurse says. "I promise, if anything changes, I'll call you guys." 

They walk down the darkened hallway as a group. Beth watches them go then turns, heading back to check on Casey. She pauses, outside of the door and listens but the room is quiet so she ducks inside, not sure what to expect. 

Casey is fast asleep, lap full of ruined tissue, but some of the tension has gone out of his face and his breathing is slow and regular. He looks peaceful and she sincerely hopes that he’ll stay that way. 

She tidies the bed quickly, tossing another blanket over him. She's seen plenty of people turn the corner and knows Casey has just done the same. He's starting to heal, and it makes her smile.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Gabby knocks quietly in the door before stepping into the hospital room. Severide is behind her, followed by Stella and Slyvie. The bed is empty and she stops, causing a minor pile up as the others crash into her. For a second, before the sound of running water registers, she's panic stricken. 

The toilet in the en-suite flushes and Casey shuffles out of the door, good hand clenched around a crutch, Beth on his bad side, giving him support. He's pale, sweat dampened hair falling into his face, but he's grinning, quietly triumphant. He's dressed in checked pajama bottoms and a grey tshirt and she's never seen him look so good. 

It's the longest he's been on his feet since the accident. He sees them and stops walking, face running through a range of emotions before he grins again. "Something smells great!" 

"It's good to see you up, Matt," Slyvie says, nudging Gabby with her elbow. "What were you doing? 

He ducks his head, unusually lost for words. "Ah… using the facilities," he says.

"Congrats, bud," Severide says. "Though I never thought I'd be congratulating you for taking a leak." 

It startles a pained laugh out of Casey. "Me either, believe me." 

He’s been in the hospital for the best part of two weeks and stuck in bed for most of that time. Being able to move, even if it hurts, feels damn good. Standing, even with Beth's support, is starting to hurt. He shuffles towards the bed, letting Beth direct his motions because lifting his bad leg is still agonising. He's out of breath by the time he's settled, and wishing for another dose of painkillers. Twelve hours since the epidural had been removed and while he's glad of the freedom, his pelvis still throbs like an infected tooth when the painkillers wear off. 

The bag in Stella's hands is a minor distraction. It bears the logo of his favourite burger joint and the smell is making his mouth water, appetite roaring back after days of liquid nutrition and hospital food. 

"It's okay, right?" Stella asks. 

"Sure, though I'm not cleaning it up if he pukes." Beth says and Stella blanches. "No, honestly, it's fine. He needs the calories." 

"He can hear you," Casey replies. "He is also starving. Dish it up," he says, but he's smiling. 

Beth hooks his IV back up and the liquid warmth of morphine creeps slowly through his veins. 

"Thanks," he says quietly to her as Sylvie helps Stella to portion out the food. 

"You're welcome, Matt," she says and smiles, reaching over to steal a fry as Severide slides a paper plate of food onto Casey's bedside table. "Draw the curtains round guys, and try to keep the noise down, okay?" She says and leaves, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

"Yes, ma'am," Severide says and hands Casey a chocolate milkshake. 

It takes a second but they all find comfortable spots to sit. No-one speaks for a moment as they tuck into the food. 

"What prompted this?" Casey asks after swallowing a mouthful of burger. It's hot, the sauce and cheese and condiments the perfect blend of sweet and tangy and crunchy. The milkshake is cold and thick and rich and he takes small sips, knowing that as much as he's enjoying it right now, it won't be nearly as good coming back up. 

"Rough shift," Gabby says, but doesn't elaborate. 

Casey doesn't press her. Now he knows to look for them, he can see the signs they've all had a bad day. The crinkle in Severide's brow, the deep shadows under Sylvie's eyes, the way Stella keeps frowning, the restless motions of Gabby's hands. They all need a distraction and he has news that should do it. 

"I might be getting out of here in a couple of days," he says casually, biting a fry in half while the words sink in. "They want the anesthesiologist to see me again and I need enough xrays to make me glow but I could be home by the weekend." It’s still four whole days away but even the thought of being home is making him giddy. He wants his own bed, his own surroundings, and all that they offer. 

"Babe that's great!" Gabby says and hugs him. He gets his good arm around her and hugs back. The pressure hurts his ribs but the contract feels damn good. He's spent the last two weeks either being poked or prodded, or treated like spun sugar, something delicate that had to be treated with the utmost care. It's another brick in the foundation of normalcy and he welcomes it. 

"Be good to get some fresh air and sun," Casey says. As hospital rooms go, the one he's in is okay, but he's getting sick of staring at the same floor walls. Even the view out of the window isn't great, just a car park and a stretch of road. 

"Well, if you need a ride, I'm game," Severide says and Stella snorts. 

"Yeah, because he's going to be able to get in that thing you call a car. If it gets any lower, it'll be a skateboard," she says, smiling to take any sting out of the words. 

Severide blinks then laughs. "Yeah, mine might not be the best transport," he concedes. 

"I have a sensible sedan," Sylvie says and takes a swallow of her strawberry milkshake. "Happy to give you a lift if you need it."

He's touched, deeply touched, by the offers. The easy teasing helps too, thawing something deep inside of him that he's been afraid to look at too deeply. He's healing well, apparently, but no-one can tell him if he'll ever get back to normal, regain what he lost in the accident and it scares him, because his life is built around his body and what he can do with it. He's missed his friends, missed the social circle that goes with the fire house and he's terrified that he'll never make it back. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Gabby touches his arm. "What's wrong?" She asks and he shakes his head, not wanting to burden them with worries he can't do anything about. 

"I'm okay." He shrugs and it hurts. "I missed this, that's all."

"You'll be back at work before you know it," Gabby says, an edge in her voice like she knows the words might not be quite true. 

"Maybe," Casey says, and wants to drag the word back as soon as it leaves his lips. "Look, don't worry about it, okay?" he says and tries a smile that feels strained, forced. 

Gabby opens her mouth to answer when her phone beeps. They all do, and a shudder of dread shoots through Casey. There's only one reason why it would happen; something has gone very badly wrong in the city he loves. 

Severide checks his texts and curses. "Jesus Christ," he says softly. 

"Bad?" Casey asks, but he can already see the answer on their faces.

"Train derailment, we're being called in. Damn thing was full of sleeper cars and it sounds like they were at capacity." Severide jams his phone into his pocket. "Sorry, Matt," he says. 

"I get it. Go." Casey waves towards the door. "Stay safe," he adds as Gabby kisses his cheek. 

"Here," she says and puts a phone and charger on his table. "It's set up. It was going to be a surprise but I'll ring you as soon as I can," she says and dashes out of the door, following the others. 

Casey watches the door swing closed behind her and wishes he was going with them. Sitting and waiting is going to be torture, but it's all he's physically capable of right now so he grits his teeth and picks up the phone, opening the browser. Someone is bound to have news on the accident and while it's not much of a distraction, it might just be enough. 

He closes his eyes for a second, sending a quick thought out into the universe. _Stay safe guys. Come home in one piece._ It's more superstitious than he normally goes for but given all he's been through, he can't help it. Any anyway, firefighters are a superstitious bunch. Even if you don't start out that way, it grows on you. He figures it's just part and parcel of defying the odds like they do every day. 

It's not much but it's all he can do. He just hopes it works because seeing his friends head out into danger and not being able to help them is the hardest thing he's ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo....
> 
> This is chapter 13, posted on April 13th, with 1300 odd words.
> 
> No wonder it was so hard to get through 😂😂😂


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter because I can't freaking get to sleep... 🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️

Chapter Fourteen

He dozes without meaning to, the phone clutched in his hand. Eight hours have passed without any news and it's too long. A text startles him awake but it's just advertising spam and meaningless. He finds himself tapping his good foot and a sense memory of being trapped shivers over him, sending his pulse racing. 

He freezes and that's worse, reminds him of being trapped even more and he sighs, disgusted at himself and his weakness. He's freaking out over a few memories when his friends are in God knows what sort of trouble. He scowls and unlocks the phone, navigating to the contacts. Whoever had set the phone up has imported all of his old stuff and the contacts list is full with numbers he can ring. He closes the menu, not wanting to risk being a distraction, and reopens the browser. 

There's no updates since the last time he checked on the news sites and nothing else is holding his attention. He tips his head back against the pillows, instincts warring with his anxe, and just breathes until he has something like control over his emotions. 

The door opens and he looks over so fast he feels something pull in his neck. It's one of the nurses, a tall blonde who's name he can't recall. "Sorry, did I wake you?" she says and walks over to the bed to do his observations. 

"Can you find out if anyone from my Firehouse has been brought in downstairs?" He asks and the strain in his voice is clear. 

"From the train crash?" She frowns. “Heard it was a bad one.” 

He nods. "Yeah. My friends got called back in last night and I haven't… There's been no news from them." 

"I'll see what I can find out," she promises and hangs a new bag of antibiotics. "This is your last one," she tells him and while normally he'd have cheered, the news just doesn't seem important right now. 

"Good," he says, because she seems to be expecting an answer from him. 

"Everything looks good, Matt," she says and leaves him. "Let me go and check for you." 

He nods his thanks, wishing he could get up and pace, do something other than lie in bed like a useless lump of flesh. The not knowing is wearing on him and the irony of the situation doesn't escape him. He'd been the one causing his friends to worry too few nights ago. 

The phone vibrates in his hand and he unlocks the screen to see a Facebook notification from a post he made Before… Before he fell, before everything went wrong and it's jarring. He deletes it without looking at the post and makes a decision, sending a single text - Sit rep? - to Boden before locking the phone. 

Slow warmth steels through him and he feels some of the gnawing tension ease under his timed dose of morphine. It pulls at him, like he's an anchored boat and it's the oncoming tide and he bows to it, lets himself drift, halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Fragments of memories drift through his mind and he blinks back to awareness minutes or hours later. 

A glance at the clock tells him he's been out for almost ninety minutes and he scrambles for the phone. 

No new messages. 

The feeling in his gut deepens. There's no reason his people should have been out of contact for so long unless something has happened. Years of experience is telling him that. He debates sending another text, then gives in and rings the Firehouse instead, counting eight, nine rings before someone picks up. 

"Firehouse 51, Andrews speaking," the voice says. 

Casey blows out a breath in relief. He knows Andrews, though not well, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. "It's Matthew Casey. What's the situation?" he asks, putting an edge on the words without really meaning to. 

Silence, then Andrews clears his throat. "No one told you?" he asks and Casey's heart about crawls up his throat. "It's bad, man. They've called in all relief. Damn Cesna came down in the tracks, derailed an Amtrack."

He knows that much, though the extra detail sends a shiver down his spine. "How are our people?" 

"Cell towers are down in the areas, something to do with the crash. Radio is spotty too, but as far as I can tell they're pulling the shift from last night and sending fresh guys in," Andrews says. "Look, I better get off the phone, just in case."

"Alright," Casey says but he's talking to dead air. He wants a radio, a vehicle and a healed body so he can go and do something. He's not likely to get any of those things soon and he sighs in disgust, debating sending another text when the door opens. 

It's Severide and he looks like hell, one wrist in a cast, a nasty gash over his cheek, exhaustion painting deep circles under his eyes.

Casey feels his eyes widen. "Jesus, Kelly!" 

"I'm okay," Severide says, which is clearly a lie and limps over to the easy chair, slumping down on it with a heartfelt groan. "We're all okay, bar some minor bumps and bruises." He lifts his casted arm. "This is probably the worst." 

He swings his feet up onto the stool with a muffled curse.

"Gabby?" Casey asks. "Sylvie? Stella?" 

"All fine. Ambo is stuck at Lakeshore but they weren't hurt. Stella needs a few stitches and a scan, so they're keeping her in the ER for now but she sent me up to update you because we knew you'd be going stir crazy." 

Severide blinks, and yawns, exhaustion eating at him. It's been a long while since he's pulled such an awful set of shifts and he knows it'll take some time to sort through, but right now all he wants is a few hours of solid sleep. He shakes his head a little, rousing himself, knowing that he owes Casey the story. 

They share a look and Casey nods, just a little. "It can wait. Sleep," he orders his friend and the other man nods, shifting and closes his eyes. There's a spare blanket just in his reach on the bed and he tosses it at Severide, the other man blearily opening his eyes as it lands in his lap. The movement reminds Casey in various ways that he's nowhere near healed and he has to bite back a groan. 

The phone buzzes again and he picks it up, finding a text from Gabby. She's sent him a photo of her and Brett, both filthy and exhausted but safe. He replies, the relief of seeing her unharmed almost making him giddy and tips his head back against the pillows, the long night weighing on him. 

_My people are safe_ is his last coherent thought before he falls asleep.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen 

Movement in the room wakes him. At first, he thinks it's Severide but when he cracks one eye open, the other lieutenant is still fast asleep on the easy chair. A glance at the clock tells Casey he's been sleeping for just over three hours and he feels bleary.

"Sorry, Casey," Kidd says as she eases past his bed. 

The light is too dim for him to get a good look at her but he gets the impression that she's on crutches. 

"Don't worry about it," he rasps. "You okay?" 

"Just joining the ranks of the walking wounded," she says and sits down gingerly on the small couch. "Banged my knee up pretty good, but I'm okay."

"Spare pillows in the cabinet by the wall," he says, ingrained habits almost forcing him out of bed to get them for her. "Blankets, too, I think." 

"It's okay, one of the nurses is bringing me some stuff." Her gaze drifts to Severide. "He tell you how he broke his arm?" 

Casey desperately needs sleep, but something in her voice tells him she needs to share the story so he forces his eyes open, rolling his head towards her. "No, he was totally exhausted. Came in here dead on his feet."

"The dumbass saved my life," she says and there's so many complicated emotions rolled up in her voice he can't even start to sort them out. "Threw himself under a strut that had started to give way and dragged us both out."

He can imagine the scene, maybe a little too well. The thought makes him suck in a breath, teeth biting down on his lip until he gets the rush of fear back under control. It tells him that returning to work is going to be interesting, and not in a good way. He'll deal with it when he has to, just like he has before and will again, if he's unlucky. 

"He loves you, Stella," he says, feeling like he's crossing a line but it doesn't seem to matter in the darkness. 

"I know," Stella says, and sleep burrs her voice when she answers. "I love him too."

They're treading dangerously close to waters he has no intention of visiting and he's relieved when the door opens. 

Beth slips in, a bundle of cloth in her hands. "Are we giving away puppies, or something?" she asks quietly. "I love you smoke eaters but you don't have to get banged up just to come see me," she says, tone light and breezy. It breaks the tension in the room

Kidd snorts. "If I had a ride I'd have been home in bed."

"What happened to your ride?" Beth asks and hands over the blankets. There's a set of clean scrubs in there too, and Stella could kiss her. She nods to the chair. "He's right there." Something about his stillness bothers her. "Is he okay?" 

The words send a jolt through Casey. Any thoughts of sleep leave him in a rush. He twists, ignoring the flare of pain from his ribs so he can watch as Beth crosses to the chair. "You want the lamp on?" he asks, and reaches clumsily for the switch. 

"Thanks Matt," she says and presses her fingers to Severide's neck, checking his pulse. "Hey, Kelly, you wanna wake up for me bud?" 

He doesn't answer. She tugs the blanket down so she can rub her knuckles on his sternum. 

His good arm twitches, lifting to ward her hands off. One eye opens, bleary and sleep filled. "Fuck off," he says distinctly before his eye slides closed again. 

Beth raises an eyebrow. "He always this charming?" 

Casey has seen Severide in just about every condition and something about his current state is ringing the alarm bells. "He normally sleeps pretty light. He was exhausted though. Pulled a double shift basically," he explains. 

"We were at that train wreck and he got clipped pretty bad," Stella adds, leaning forward like she wanted to be at his side. "Support came down and he dove under it."

"His vitals seem okay, but I've gotta admit I'd feel happier if I could wake him properly," Beth says and rubs her knuckles on his chest again. 

He flaps a hand at her in irritation. "Go away. I'm fine. Just let me sleep." 

"Kelly, open your eyes for me," Beth asks again. He doesn't respond this time, and she fishes the penlight out of her scrubs pocket, checking his pupil response. Whatever she sees doesn't make her happy. "Hey, Matt? Hit your emergency call button for me, will ya?" 

He does, heart racing, and seconds later there's a team surrounding his bed. 

"I'm fine," he tells them just as Beth starts snapping orders. 

A nurse wheels a stretcher in from somewhere and together they lift Severide onto it. He rouses briefly, when the duty doctor runs her hands over his ribs, then slumps back into unconsciousness. 

They race out of the room, leaving Casey and Kidd behind in shell-shocked silence.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

"He's going to be okay," Beth says, almost an hour later. "Has a minor concussion and he's banged up worse than he let on downstairs but there's nothing life threatening. They're keeping Kelly in for observation for the rest of the night." 

"Oh thank god," Stella says. She's changed out of her dirty clothes and into her scrubs. 

"Thanks, Beth," Casey says. The wait had seemed endless, both of them too wound up to talk. 

"Get some sleep, both of you," the petite nurse orders and leaves the room. 

Enough light filters in that Casey can see Stella's face and the silent tears rolling down her cheeks. His heart clenches at the sight and he wishes he could comfort her. He opens his mouth to speak but before he can get the words out, she swipes the tears away. 

"Night, Casey," she says, voice rough and choked. Something in it tells him she doesn't want to talk and he lets the words he wants to say slip away. 

"Goodnight, Stella," he says instead and closes his own eyes, not surprised by the wave of exhaustion that rolls over him. 

\---

Daylight fills the room when he blinks awake and it takes his brain a second to catch up. The broken night has left him groggy. Gabby sits in the chair next to his bed, a bag on her lap. 

He flicks his eyes over her, relief trickling through him when he doesn't see anything amiss.

"Hey," he says, and reaches for her with his right hand. 

"Hey, babe," she replies, pressing a kiss on the palm of his hand. "Did you hear the good news?" 

"Where's Stella?" He asks at the same moment, the words crashing into each other. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

"Went to see Severide. Nurse took her down about an hour ago," Gabby explains, smiling. "How do you feel about getting out of this place?" 

He's more than ready to go home, the thought of his own bed calling to him like a siren. "Oh god yes," he says "when can we go?" 

She laughs again, kissing his knuckles. "Beth's getting the paperwork started. The docs want to do a few more checks but they seem happy so far." 

The thought of getting back to some sense of normality hits him hard. He can't wait to walk into their apartment, curl up on their couch, sleep in their bed. It's almost a physical ache in his chest. 

All the doctors he's seen come through the room over the next few hours, asking questions and giving detailed notes about his recovery at home. He answers honestly, takes it all in but inside he feels like a kid on Christmas eve, anticipation filling him so much he wants to jump around. 

It's late afternoon by the time he escapes the room, rolling through the hallways in the mandated wheelchair. 

"Good luck, Matt," Beth says, patting his shoulder. "Don't come back too soon, you hear?" 

He turns to grin at her over his shoulder. "Do my best," he promises, relishing the feel of the sun on his face. 

Gabby pulls the car over and they manhandle him into the back seat, bad leg propped on two pillows. The whole process hurts, leaves him exhausted and it hits him again just exactly what he has to claw back. It's not his first time coming back from an injury but this is worse than anything he's had before and he knows getting his fitness and stamina back is going to be a damn hard slog. If this ever heals properly, he thinks, staring down at his hip. 

Gabby slips into the driver's seat and turns to look at him. "Ready to go home?" 

"God yes," he says and she smiles, turning to face the road, glad to see some life coming back into his eyes. "Take me home, please," he says softly.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting and the short chapters. I've had a really tough couple of weeks. My mum was admitted to hospital with signs of a stroke and I've honestly just not felt like writing anything. 
> 
> Luckily she's mostly fine and came home today so I'll try to get back on a more regular schedule. Not promising anything as this is also the last two weeks for my dissertation but I'll do my best. 😄

Chapter Seventeen

Stella settles herself carefully on the chair next to Kelly’s bed, reaching over to take his hand. He's dozing, dosed with painkillers, and he blinks tiredly at her. "Hey."

"Hey," she says, and presses a kiss on his grazed knuckles. "How are you doing?"

"Had better nights," he jokes faintly. "Sorry if I scared you." His brow wrinkles and he blushes. "I owe Beth an apology, don't I?" he asks as the vague memory of what he said comes back to him. 

"Yup," Stella says with a smirk. "Hey, don't worry about it. She's just glad you're okay." 

"Okay," he mumbles and yawns, eyes sliding closed.

The light in the room is dim, filtering in from the hallway, but it's enough to show the worst of the bruises on his face. There's a near line of stitches running across his left temple into his hair and a couple more in a cut on his cheekbone. 

It makes something in her chest clench tight and for a second she can hardly breathe. It's not the first or last time either of them has been in hospital but it's a wake up call, especially so close after Casey's accident. They're all aware what they're risking each time they go on a call but they can't dwell on it, because it's the job and you either deal or you don't. The fear sneaks up later, in the quiet moments and it's biting her deep right now. 

Her hand tightens around his and she bows her head, resting her cheek on the cool metal bed rail while the fear peaks and falls. It pulls a shuddery breath out of her and she swipes her eyes, not surprised to find them wet. 

The noise rouses him and he squints at her, brow furrowing as he takes in what he's seeing. He brushes her cheek with his fingertips. "Let it go," he says gently. "We're okay." 

"I can't," she says and this time the tears take over. She can't stop them, doesn't want to try. They've been building up for a while and she needs to release the pressure. 

He shifts on the bed, rolling onto his side with a stifled groan. "Get up here," he says, and tweaks her hair. 

The bed is barely big enough for the two of them but they manage, spooning together. There's a thousand things she wants to say but she can't find the words. She's exhausted but her brain is spinning at a million miles an hour and she can't make it stop. 

"We almost died today," she says. 

"We didn't though." His arm, draped over her waist, tightens into a hug. "Not our time," he says and his voice is burred with sleep. 

She turns to look at him. "That simple?" 

He nods and she feels it. "Has to be or else you can't function." He gentles his voice, "Go to sleep, babe." 

She nestles closer to him, breathing in his scent and lets her eyes drift closed.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen 

**Six weeks later**

_Time for a cup of coffee,_ he thinks and pushes himself to his feet. The bunk room outside his quarters is quiet and he takes the chance to do a lap, stretching muscles gone stiff with sitting. There's an ice pack and bunk time in his future, hip and lower back a dull throb. He ducks back into his quarters and picks up the pack of ibuprofen there, popping two in his mouth and chasing them with a gulp of water. 

Something goes down the wrong way, and suddenly he feels like he's choking, coughing violently. He can feel the desk under his hands but his mind is back on the house collapse. 

_So much pain it steals his breath away. There are things - hands - holding him down and he can't breathe. There's something in his mouth, his throat and he gags on it, jerking one hand to get it away. His throat is on fire, burning like a car wreck and…_

He jumps, flinching as real warm hands land on his shoulders and shake him, slightly. 

"Matt!" Brett calls again and from her tone it's not the first time she's called his name. "You with me? What happened?" 

Her hand drifts down to his wrist, feeling the racing pulse there. His skin is warm, clammy and he's breathing hard. 

He blinks and rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah. Sorry." His mind is racing and it's hard to focus on her but he forces himself. Pushes the nightmare back into its box and makes himself smile. "I'm fine."

"Your pulse is telling me a different story," she scolds gently and feels that flinch again, realising suddenly that maybe she's jumped into troubled waters without really intending to. He's been quiet since getting back to work and she suddenly wonders if it's more than just paperwork getting him down. 

He picks up the bottle of water. "Went down the wrong way," he says as if that explains everything. 

She frowns and risks another question. "Do you remember much, about the accident?" Sylvie asks and watches his face darken. It's too soon, she shouldn't have asked and she wishes she could claw the words back.

He shrugs. "Bits and pieces. Sensations, mostly." His lip curls on the word _sensations_ and she has to hold back a flinch. 

He's not sure what he remembers. It's all flashes and pain and cold and he can't tell what really happened and what his mind dredged up to fill in the blanks. 

He could read the incident report. It's all down in there in black and white, but every time he tries to open the folder, he can't bring himself to do it. Even the thought of reading it makes his hands clammy, makes nausea roll in his gut. It makes him feel like a failure, like he's weak, and that's not something that he's used to feeling. 

She's not quite sure how to answer him, because there's a note in his voice that she's never heard before. He sounds lost, adrift, and everything inside of her wants to reach out to him only she's not sure if he'd welcome it. 

The bells ring and they both listen. It's a call for Ambo and she ducks out of his quarters with a quiet smile that promises the conversation isn't over. 

He watches her go, then turns back to his desk and the folder waiting there. _Coffee first,_ he decides, knowing all he's doing is putting the moment off. 

\---

It isn't until much later, when she's helping Gabby to restock the rig until it hits her. She stares at the ET tube in her hand, and puts the pieces together slowly. 

_Oh Matt,_ she thinks, _damn it, this is my fault._

The thought of him remembering the intubation makes her feel sick with guilt. It might have been to save his life but she owes him a conversation, if he wants it, only she has no idea how to bring it up. 

The bells go off again before she has chance to seek him out but she promises herself that she's going to try when they get back.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break in posting. I've had some stuff going on in my personal life that has made me not want to write. It's resolved now and I'm planning to get this story finished either today or by the end of the week at the latest. I start a MA English next Monday (EEK!!!) so I want it done and everyone who's hung on this long deserves a resolution to the story. :)

Chapter Nineteen

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ Casey thinks as he reaches for the folder again, hands shaking. He spreads his right hand and lets it rest on the warm plastic but can't make himself open it. He sucks in a deep breath and forces himself past the fear, just like he'd do if he was stepping into a rolling fire. Fear only holds you back if you let it and he has tricks to get around it. The threat might be immaterial but the fear isn’t and they work just the same. 

His own report is the first thing he sees, the few scant details that he can remember scribbled down in black and white. It gives him a chance to pause, to catch his breath, and he's grateful for it. Grateful that he can’t remember more, because what little he can recall is more than enough. Maybe he’s missing pieces that would give those bits more context but here in his quarters, his safe space, he’s not ashamed to admit to himself that he’s afraid to know more. He’s already struggling under the burden that he's carrying and he’s not sure what he’ll do under any more mental load. But maybe knowing the full story will help him make sense of what happened, let him put it behind him. He’s balanced on the knife edge between wanting to know and not wanting and he’s still not sure which way he’s going to fall. 

Severide's report is next and he skims over it, thankful for the other lieutenant's economical, succinct writing style that somehow hides the horror of what happened behind the bland words. He pauses again, this time to laugh bitterly when he sees the cause of the structure failure. 

_Termites. Fucking termites,_ he thinks and something about that stirs up some dark gallows humour. All of that pain and suffering and angst because someone hadn’t bothered to get their house inspected for _fucking termites?_ It feels like a cosmic joke on him and he can’t help but laugh. He knows it’s probably not all that funny, but it feels it to him. After a few seconds the sensation fades and he flips to the next page. 

It’s Brett’s report and it wipes away any trace of humour. Her writing is neat, words nicely spaced and he lets his eyes unfocus, lets the words blur because this is the report he’s been most dreading. His own work experience let him fill in some of the blanks of the rescue but while he has some basic lifesaving training, he’s not a paramedic by any measure and he can’t fill those blanks in with what he already knows. 

There’s a knock on his door before he can force himself to look at the page and he turns gratefully, more glad of the distraction that he wants to admit. It’s Brett, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself and something in his chest twists. She’s become one of his best friends and seeing the worried frown on her face makes him frown in return. 

“Hey,” he says, and waves her in. “Everything okay? How’s Sanderson working out?”   
She has a temp partner- Gabby is teaching classes at the academy and Sanderson is filling in. He’s a good medic, but quiet, self-contained in a way some people think is standoffish. Casey hopes the two paramedics are getting on well, because it's a long shift if you’re at odds with your workmates. 

Brett smiles, waving one hand. “He’s fine. Quiet, but I’m learning a lot from him.” She perches on the foot of the bed. “Actually, I came here to see if you had a moment to talk.” Her gaze flickers to the desk and she bites her lip. “Ah. Did you read that yet?”

He swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry. “Not yet,” he says quietly. “What’s going on, Slyvie?”

She shifts, dropping her gaze and rubs her hands together. “I think I owe you a conversation, if you want to have it.” She looks up, meeting his eyes. “I won’t force you, if you’re not ready, but there are things that happened that you should probably know and it might be better coming from me than a report.”

Her words fill him with tension, He can feel it, creeping over his shoulders and neck in a wave and twists his head, trying to force it away. “I feel like everyone is creeping around this. Gabby point blank won’t talk about it and Severide changes the subject every time I try to bring it up.” He pauses, but he doesn't have to think. “Just tell me,” he says, and hears the weariness behind the words. One way or the other, he just wants it over with now. 

She presses her lips together, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles have gone white. “Well, okay.” Now that she’s in the conversation, she’s not sure where to start and has to pause to order her thoughts. “We got you out from under the beam, but your injured leg was caught and the movement made you black out.”

He nods, faintly, because he can remember some of that. Mostly sensations, voices talking to him, but her words bring more details back. Like him screaming his head off because being manhandled had felt like they’d fed him into a wood chipper. The memory fades to black after that and he flinches, coming up hard against something he’s been trying very hard not to recall. He has a feeling he’s not going to like her next words, but makes no move to stop her. Sometimes the only way to get past the fear is to throw yourself at it, to embrace it and make it part of you. “Go on,” he says, hoarsely, because his mouth is suddenly parched. 

“You stopped breathing,” she says slowly. “We had a mask on you but it wasn’t doing much and we - _I_ \- made the decision to intubate you.” She pauses and rubs her hand over her mouth, glancing at him to see that he’s paled. She wants to rewind, to undo the last ten minutes but they’re beyond the tipping point and for both their sakes, she knows that she needs to keep going. “I should have given you more drugs first, but your sats were tanking and I didn’t think we had time for them to work. I tried a couple of times but...” she has to pause again, to swipe her eyes. She’s not sure when she started crying and the heavy feeling in her chest tells her she’s not likely to stop any time soon. It’s one of the hardest things she’s ever had to say to a friend, and she hopes he won’t hate her for it after the fact. “But you were semi-conscious and kept fighting the procedure. I know it must have been awful and I’m so sorry, Matt,” she finishes miserably. 

He’s silent and she can hardly bear to look at him, in case he’s angry, in case he blames her. Worry forces her eyes off the floor and onto his face and the air escapes her in a rush at his expression. 

He looks relieved and puzzled in equal measure and she can’t quite make sense of the combination. 

“Matt?” she says and he blinks at her, putting away his memories for the moment. 

“I can’t really remember that,” he tells her honestly. He remembers waking up in the ambulance with the ET tube in his throat and the absolute horror of that but her words don’t stir up anything. The docs all warned him that he might have some traumatic amnesia and apparently that’s one of the pieces he’s never going to get back. _Not that I want to, because from the look on her face it’s even worse than she’s telling me,_ he thinks. “Thank you, though, for telling me.” 

She sniffs, swiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I was worried you’d hate me.”

He stands and takes hold of her hands, meeting her eyes squarely. “You saved my life. I could never hate you for doing what you had to to do that.” 

She sniffs again, and he gives into the impulse, drawing her gently into a hug.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the last chapters in this story. I had a totally different ending planned and it was going to be a lot darker than the ending I'm writing now. I had to take a pause and think about it, because with everything bad that's going on in the world, I just couldn't bring myself to write a dark'n'angsty ending. I just couldn't. 
> 
> What I'm trying to say (in the longest way EVER, apparently) is that these last three chapters have been rewritten with that in mind.
> 
> I might revisit the idea down the line (it was going to involve Matt developing PTSD and all that would entail) but right now it's not something I feel able to write well and it's a serious and meaningful topic that should be done well. 
> 
> So enjoy the alt ending, which is a lot happier, more fun and (I think) much needed in these strange and slightly scary times. :)

Chapter Twenty

He feels warm and solid in her arms, and she clings to him for a long moment, getting her emotions under control. He smells health and whole, with no lingering tang of sickness, of hospital and that reassures her in ways few other things could. She’s gotten used to the smell after all her years as a paramedic, but it often means bad things, and she’s relieved it’s gone from him. _Thank you,_ she thinks, not sure who she’s sending the words to, but that doesn’t make her any less grateful to have him back whole. There’s probably a Patron Saint of firefighters but if there is, she can’t remember their name. Matt would probably know, or Hermann, but for now she’s just happy to listen to his heart beating strongly under her ear. 

He pats her back, gently, and steps back, a crooked smile on his lips, but his eyes are shadowed. “It was the hospital,” he says, one hand drifting towards his throat “I woke up there and I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe on my own.” He shakes his head a little, almost shrugging. “So not your fault, but thank you.” 

There’s a damp patch on his shirt where her tears have soaked in and she swipes at it with her sleeve. “I’d say you’re welcome, but it’d feel wrong,” she says, nose wrinkling. 

He laughs at that, and it brings some life back to his eyes, chasing away the shadows. “Yeah, it probably would be a little weird.” 

One of the office staff taps on the door, holding up a stack of mail. Casey takes them with murmured thanks, flipping through the stack quickly. Most of it is mundane stuff, job related and he dumps those on his desk, but one envelope bears the Academy stamp and his guts do a strange little flip when he sees it. He rips the envelope open and tugs the letter out, skimming over the words eagerly. 

“Hmm,” he says, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. It’s a mix of good and not so good news, but he’ll take it, because it’s better than the alternative; being put on medical leave for the rest of his career. 

“Bad news?” Slyvie asks. There’s a crinkle in between his eyebrows, not quite a frown, but the start of one, and she doesn’t like seeing it there. 

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But maybe not. I have to recertify before they’ll let me back to full duties. I have a spot in two months.” He’s more nervous than he expected to be, knows the injuries he suffered have changed his body in ways it’ll take him time to understand, to find ways to work around. The doctors warned him it would be a long recovery, and the low grade ache in his hip tells him the same thing. But he wants back, wants to get back into the job he loves rather than being tied to a desk. 

“You know we’ll help, whatever you need,” Slyvie says and pats him on the arm. “If anyone can do it, it’s you, Matt.”

The bells ring with a call for Ambo and she dashes out of his quarters with a smile, leaving him to his thoughts. 

He’s already doing physio every week, and swimming when he can but he hasn’t had a full set of kit on since the accident and his stamina is nowhere near what it used to be. Two months isn’t a lot of time to claw back what he’s lost and he has to admit that he’s worried about failing. It’s a tough course, mentally and physically, and both are still a little shaky. 

Well, sitting here worrying about it isn’t going to change a damn thing, he thinks and drops the letter on his desk. There’s a new set of kit waiting for him in the turnout room- Boden’s unspoken encouragement- and he heads that way, feeling the butterflies in his stomach grow boots. 

He’s lucky- the equipment floor is quiet and he slips into the turnout room unnoticed. The last thing he wants for this is an audience. He finds his spot, a smile touching his lips when he sees his old helmet survived and has been hung up ready for his return. Plastic encases his new turnout gear and he slices it open, balling it up to put in the trash later. Cold soaks through his socks when he toes his shoes off, ready for his new boots. It takes him a second to tuck the boots inside the new trousers, just like they would be if he was gearing up for a real call. The kevlar material is stiff as he pulls the trousers on, the once natural movement feeling awkward and clumsy. He fastens the velcro and clips, shrugging the suspenders into a more comfortable position on his shoulders, and reaches for the turnout coat. 

It takes him a few trips up and down the room to get comfortable in the gear again. It’s not as bad as he expected, was worried that wearing it would trigger some sort of flashback, but it just feels achingly normal to him, and he’s glad of it, feels some broken piece of his soul click back home. 

His breathing apparatus is on the rack on his spot and he lets his hand rest on the tank for a long second before picking it up to check over. Well this is going to be the real test, he thinks, mouth suddenly dry as dust. He picks the tank up, finding it full and shrugs the harness into place before he can think too much about it. It feels heavier than he remembers and he shifts his weight until he gets his balance. He brings the mask to his face and has to stop because he’s shaking. It makes him angry at himself, at the universe and he jams the mask in place quickly, before he can chicken out again. 

It’s a mistake, and he knows that as soon as he tightens the straps. His pulse roars in his ears and he feels trapped, suddenly claustrophobic in a way he’s never been before. Spots whirl before his eyes and he grits his teeth, breathing through it, hands clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides as he fights the urge to rip the mask off his face.

Someone touches his arm and he whirls, eyes wide. It’s Severide and the other man looks both puzzled and alarmed. 

Matt gives in and pulls the mask off, gulping in fresh air like he’d been drowning. “Fuck,” he says disticntly, and rubs his face, trying to ignore how much his whole body is shaking. “Goddamnit!” 

“It’s good to see you back in that,” Severide says. “Mask giving you trouble?” he adds, casually. 

“Yeah,” Matt shakes his head. “As soon as I put it on…” He trails off, unsure how much he wants to admit, and settles for blowing out a harsh breath instead. “I got a date for recertification,” he says by way of explanation. “Figured I needed to try this stuff back on, see how much I had to work through.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Matt,” Severide says. “Give yourself time. You’ll get there.” He sniffs, shoving his hands into his packets. “How long, until they test you?”

The problem is, he’s sick of giving himself time. It’s been weeks and while his rational mind knows that’s not all that long in reality, he just wants to get back to normal. Get back to is job and his life without the accident handing over him like the sword of fucking Damocles. And if he wants to get back to work, he needs to get past this, because he doesn’t have long to get back into shape. 

“Two months,” Matt says and takes a deep breath, slipping the mask back into place again. It’s easier this time- he doesn’t feel like he’s instantly choking, and encouraged, he takes a few steps, feeling his breath catch as his body slowly adjusts to the strain. The scared bit in him wants to rip it off again, to throw it away and never put it back on, but the stubborn streak in him is stronger and he takes another step, feeling twinges in his hip. He’ll probably be sore later, but it seems a small price to pay to get over the fear that has slowly been crippling him. 

He makes a full lap of the turnout room, returning to Severide’s side before he takes the mask off and lets it hang. He’s sweating under his gear, but he’s smiling too, because maybe, just maybe, he might actually be able to do this after all. It’ll take time and effort and probably a lot of damned stubbornness, but he has those. 

He slaps Severide on the arm and strips out of his gear, feeling strangely encouraged, knowing he’s smiling like a loon. 

Severide studies him and whatever he sees makes him smile back. “You’re one stubborn son of a bitch,” he says, shaking his head. 

Casey laughs. “Takes one to know one, right?” he says. “I only have two months to get back into shape. I’m going to need your help.”

“You know you only have to ask.” Severide nods, patting Casey on the shoulder. He pauses, squinting, and adds “Does this mean I get to drill you like a candidate?” 

“In your dreams,” Casey says with a snort, and bumps the other man with his shoulder. 

Severide bumps him back, only just stopping himself from flinching as he does it. The memory of Casey in a hospital bed is still fresh in everyone’s mind and they’re being careful around him, but if they’re ever going to get back to normal, they all need to get past that. He smiles, and slaps Casey on the stomach lightly. “Ladder drill? Last one to the top buys the drinks at Molly’s.”

Casey laughs and nods. “You’re on.” He knows exactly who’s going to be paying for those drinks but doesn’t let it stop him. 

\----

Hours later, he falls into bed, aching from head to toe like he hasn’t since his training days. There are bruises on his body and he’s even managed to pick up a couple of blisters, but he feels good, feels like he’s taken a big step towards reclaiming his old life. It’s a start, something to build on, and right now, he’s not sure that he could ask for much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure that the whole re certification thing isn't even remotely accurate so I hope you'll forgive me for that. :)
> 
> Normally I'd do a lot more research but I'm a little short on time right now so artistic licence will have to suffice. :)


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm fairly sure this training scene isn't at all realistic or accurate but artistic licence, hey? Hope you'll all forgive me because I needed a happy ending for this and the scene works.

Chapter Twenty One

He’s more nervous than he can ever remember being. Even his first time running the course hadn’t made him feel this bad. He gulps, wondering if he’s actually going to throw up, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. There’s only five of them in the locker room, and everyone looks exactly the same, pale with anxiety, with nerves and somehow that makes him feel a little better. He rummages in his duffel, finding a bottle of water and a pack of mints, hoping one or the other will settle his stomach. 

He’s already kitted out in the bottom half of his turnout gear and his coat rests on the bench next to him. He’s already completed the written exam, and it went well, the answers coming to him easily. It’s the physical section that’s giving him palpitations, because even though he’s been training hard, he’s not sure if he’s back to how he was before the accident. The neat surgical scars on his wrist and hip are still vivid, only just starting to shade into silver and they’re a testament to exactly what he went through. 

Someone bangs on the locker room door. “Five minutes!” The instructor pokes his head in the door. “I want you all lined up outside ready to go in five minutes!” he yells again and ducks out, letting the door slam behind him. 

Casey spits the mint out into a tissue and drops it in a bin, gulping down a couple of glugs of water while he’s got the chance. He slips his turnout coat on, adding gloves and a heat proof snood round his neck. Muscle memory takes over as he rechecks the fastenings, making sure everything is secure. It is, and he spares a second to close his eyes and just _breathe,_ getting his mind right before he leads the way out of the locker room and out into the cold. 

There’s a bit of snow on the floor, the first flurries of winter and the sky is leaden, clouds like smoke scudding by overhead. Everything they’re going to need is laid out in front of them and he gets a brief flash of impatience, wishing they could just get on with it so he can stop feeling so fucking nervous. 

The instructor is talking again and Casey forces himself to listen, forces his brain to focus, to turn away all distractions. 

“I want you lot fully kitted in your breathing apparatus! Two minutes!” the instructor yells and Casey grins, because it takes him a lot less than two minutes to fit his. 

He’s done it so many times he could probably do it in his sleep, and he’s the first one finished. The instructor walks up and down the line, inspecting them, and even though he knows he’s suited and booted correctly, Casey has to fight the urge to twitch as those probing eyes run over him. It’s like being a candidate again, and never in his life did he think that would happen. He gets a short nod and a clap on the shoulder and lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

They start with ladder drills; running hoses to upper floors, rescuing dummies that are trapped behind glass windows, behind plywood, behind a metal shutter that drops and almost takes his fingers off before he can get a brace under it. It’s not just physically tough, it’s taxing him mentally in a way he hasn’t had to think for too long, and he relishes it, giving himself over to the process and letting every bit of hard earned experience show. 

He’s second in the drill and before the accident that would have bothered him, but he knows he’s not as quick as he was before and he can accept second. It’s better than being last, better than failing and he grins to himself as he drops his dummy on the pile and heads on to the next exercise. 

It's a down firefighter drill, dragging a fully kitted out dummy through a smoke filled obstacle course and the strain starts to hurt. The dummy catches on something and his gloves slip, dumping him on his rear with a pained grunt. He pushes it away and scrambles to his feet, knowing he's limping slightly but there's nothing he can do about that until he finishes. Self doubt starts to creep in as he drops to his hands and knees to squeeze through a low section. _What if I can't actually do this?_ He thinks but the thread of sheer stubbornness buried deep inside of him won't let him quit. There's light and fresh air ahead and he grits his teeth, pushing through everything and finally scrambles free, dragging the dummy over the line and collapsing next to it, harsh breaths tearing out of his throat. Third this time, but hell, he'll take it. He’s inside the time limit and third is still a pass. It rankles, but he knows he can't ask for much more at this point. 

“Half an hour break!” One of the instructors calls. 

Casey glances at the big clock on the wall, surprised to see that the first four hours have flown past. There’s only one more drill to do and if he passes, he’s home free, a fully functioning firefighter again. He follows everyone else to the small rest area and accepts a coffee, tucking a bottle of Gatorade in his pocket before heading for the food table. Whoever has done the catering has picked well; there are bags and boxes on the table from Portillo's Hot Dogs which is just down the street. He grabs a plate and loads it with food, mouth watering from the smell, and finds a seat to tuck in.

He’s starving, and the hot dog and fries taste amazing. He licks the last of the chilli off his fingers just as the instructors walk into the room. The Gatorade is warm but he forces it down anyway, knowing the toughest bit is still to come and he’s going to need every single bit of energy that he can find. There’s a couple of ibuprofen in his pocket and he fishes them out, swallowing them with a gulp of now cold coffee just before one of the instructors yells at them to line up. He gathers his trash, dumping it in a bin on the way past and goes to join the others. 

Nervous energy fills him, and it’s all he can do to stand still as the instructor runs through the details of the last exercise. All he has to do is run a hose up the stairs, beat the smokebox and do another dummy drag. It sounds easy, and he’d aced the course the last time he’d done it, but he knows he can’t take that for granted this time. 

So get your game face on, Casey, and get this thing done, he thinks to himself as they file back outside. He’s second to go and he’s glad; the waiting would probably have killed him if he’d been any later. Seven minutes, he thinks and rubs his hands together. It’s a tight time, but doable, as long as he keeps moving. 

The instructor claps him on his shoulder. “Go!” he yells and Casey take off running towards the waiting hose and hydrant. The thread spins smoothly under his suddenly cold fingers, the hose slotting neatly into place and he slings the rest of it over his shoulder, heading for the stairs at a steady pace. Running up them hurts; his hip is already sore, and he’s not even halfway done. He grunts and grits his teeth, forcing his legs to keep moving. It’s only pain, and it’s temporary. The metal stairs are slick and he stumbles, jarring himself before he catches his balance and heads towards the smokebox. 

It feels like both forever and no time at all since he crossed the start line and he has no real idea how long he has left. He pauses at the door to strap his mask in place and nods at the instructor, who swings the door open so he can enter. 

It’s pitch black inside, filled with thick black smoke and for a second, he freezes, back in the dark in the basement. _Only I’m fucking not. I’m not trapped. I’m in control of this,_ he tells himself fiercely and drops to his hands and knees, crawling through the maze, clearing space as he goes. Sweat burns his eyes and he blinks it away. There’s no time for any distractions, no time to think about anything other than finding the door and moving on to the next and last part of the drill. 

The space opens up around him and he feels carefully, hand landing on the handle. The door swings open and he stumbles outside, squirting even though it’s coming on dusk and the sky is painted dusky pink. 

There’s a crowd of people behind the finish line but he can’t spare them any attention, racing down the stairs. His dummy is one of the furthest away and he jogs over to it, each footfall jarring through him like he’s riding in a beaten old truck on a rough dirt road. Sounds buzz in his ears but he can’t make sense of them, focus solely on the dummy in front of him. He gets his webbing in place and starts moving, ignoring everything but what he’s doing. 

Each breath burns in his throat, hands aching around the webbing but he keeps going until he’s over the line, dropping the dummy to stoop, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he slowly gets his breath back. 

People surround him and he looks up, seeing the faces of his team, his people. 

“The time?” he gasps, hardly daring to hope that he’s made it, that he passed. 

“Six fifty five,” the instructor tells him, and pats him on his shoulder. “Welcome back, lieutenant Casey.”

He blinks in disbelief, the words taking a moment to sink in before he grins, whooping. He’s passed. He can go back to work and it feels fucking amazing. 

Gabby wraps her arms around him, whispering congratulations in his ear, and the others follow suit. His cheeks hurt from smiling. Severide puts an end to it by slapping his helmet. “Go shower, there’s a party planned at Molly’s for you.” 

“First round is on me!” he yells. 

Some moments stick with him, and he knows this will be one of them, a glorious golden moment, filled with laughter and love and happiness. _So let’s go celebrate,_ he thinks and heads towards the showers. _After all, the beer isn't going to drink itself._

~~~The End~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. It's been a ride and I'd like to thank everyone who has read this, who has commented or left kudos. It honestly means so much to me and I appreciate each and every interaction I have with you guys. 
> 
> I have a few ideas for what I'm going to write next. :)


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